


In This Life as in the Last

by crossingwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, I’m likely (deffos) gonna break some of grrm’s stuff don’t @ me, but I’m breaking it better, cannibalism happens in this sorry it’s winter that sucks, d&d broke it first, it’s never on screen but it happens blame grrm he did it first, tfw u write a 100k fanfic bc ur bitter about Some Choices Made In Season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-04-16 23:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 102,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: Victory has been won, and spring will come again.  But the North is starving, and if House Stark could defeat an ageless enemy to the north with sword and wolf and dragon, it is quite another matter to feed those who swear allegiance to the King in the North.When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I’ve been working on for a long time—it came out of a several week bender over my vacation last autumn and has basically been in beta since then. This is by far and away the most daring fic I’ve written in terms of scope. I haven’t tried weighting this many plotlines in one go in a while (if ever) and I hope that it proves satisfying to you. Because of how long it is and how the chapters are structured, I may tweak the number of chapters based on how I decide to split things up as I go. I think I’ve got it sorted, but that may change. The draft is complete and final as stands. Thanks ever so much to [@samwpmarleau](https://samwpmarleau.tumblr.com/) for the title!
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> TBH Idk what the ages in this are. It’s a weird combination of GOT and ASOIAF where I think the baseline ages for the younger Starklings matches GOT’s canon (IE, Sansa/Arya/Bran are all adults or verging on adulthood) but the proportion for everyone else’s ages are based on ASOIAF (so Jon, Dany, Brienne, Gendry are all closer to the Starklings’ ages than GOT depicts); most (most) of the canon is Book canon with some random things from GOT bc I do what I want apparently so help me god why did I do that (I had my reasons).
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> [I’ve been using this Dothraki translator.](http://funtranslations.com/dothraki)
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> Lastly, a major thanks to [@thetasteoffire](http://thetasteoffire.tumblr.com) for looking this over for me in its first draft and letting me call him close to midnight so I could talk through the weird magical needs that I had to chew through for parts of this fic. On top of all the other non-ASOIAF magical shit I was flailing at him about. A mensch of the highest order tbqh.

**Arya**

It was cold in Winterfell.

When Ramsay Snow—Arya _refused_ to call him Bolton—had taken the castle, he’d shattered some of the mechanisms for pumping the hot spring water up through the castle walls. She never remembered being cold in Winterfell as a girl. She’d shared a bed with Sansa then—silent nights with her back turned to her sister and her sister’s back turned to her.

She slept in the same bed as her sister now, but the cold drove them to one another’s arms. Sansa had always been taller than Arya—longer of leg and torso because of her age—but now that Arya was grown, they were nearly of a height. Nearly. Sansa was longer of leg still, and had a tendency to wear heeled boots to make her even taller—taller even than Jon sometimes. Arya never wore heeled boots—they made her movements less fluid, and even if the war was over that didn’t mean she ever wished to be caught off guard.

“I don’t think it’s wise that he marries her,” Sansa whispered in the dark, and Arya grimaced. She’d been afraid of that—afraid that Sansa would say the words to her as they cuddled beneath thick furs and the white winds blew outside the window of the bedroom they’d shared as girls.

 _Nor do I,_ Arya’s traitor heart thought, but she’d never say it—not ever. Jon was _Jon_ and she loved him far too dearly to ever hurt him. And she could see in his eyes that he wed for love. Who was she to say she thought it might not be wise when it might break his heart.

“He’s made it clear that is what he will do,” Arya said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. Sansa let out a huff.

“It should be _Bran_ that’s king now that the war is done. Jon’s not even a true Stark.”

“He has our blood,” Arya said firmly.

“I know,” Sansa said. “I’m not saying he’s not our family, nor even that he’s not a Stark,” Arya was glad to hear that—for Sansa hadn’t said that when first they’d learned the truth of the thing. They’d all been upset and Sansa, ever one for how things _should_ be had said words that had cut like knives. There was even a tinge of regret in her voice now. “But he’s not father’s son. He’s not his trueborn son. He’s—”

“The son of a different king. He made Bran Lord of Winterfell, and said the castle shall be in our line, not in his. He says that he can’t have children, so what does it matter if he—” She fell silent. She didn’t want to say it, refused to admit to it.

Sansa didn’t reply, and Arya knew that her thoughts were on Bran now too. _What can we do?_ She wanted to cry, but she wasn’t a stupid little girl any longer—she was home, and the pack survived, and she wouldn’t cry she wouldn’t, she _wouldn’t_.

Sansa’s arms tightened around her. They lay in silence for a while. She wondered if Sansa was going to bring up Jon again, but she didn’t.

After a while, she heard her sister’s breath slow, and grow more even, and her arms around Arya grew lax. Sansa had fallen asleep, but Arya wouldn’t for hours yet. She had trouble sleeping of late, and thoughts of Jon and Bran filled her mind too much for her to sleep.

-

There was snow all about her, and she ran through it on strong legs, following the scent on her nose. There was nothing alive, but she could still smell the dead—the good dead, the edible dead, not the rotted living dead. Those dead had been burned by the flying fire. The flying fire were dead now too.

She howled, sang, and the pack sang back. At her side, her brothers—the angry black who tried to become alpha in her stead, the silent white, and the sad grey. They would survive the winter—all of them together.

-

Arya woke to the sound of Sansa closing the door behind her. She had not stirred when her sister had climbed from the bed, and sat up slowly, furs still tugged around her. The room was grey in the late dawn, meaning that she’d likely missed what breakfast the kitchens had to offer. Though she was quite sure that she could convince the cooks in the kitchens to find her something to eat, she wouldn’t do it. Jon had been firm that those who missed breakfast would have to wait until the next meal to eat. There was too much strain on their food supplies as is, and the cooks had enough work cut out for them.

Kicking herself for sleeping so late, she got up, dressed herself in the velvets and leathers and furs that Sansa had had made for her when she’d returned to Winterfell and went off towards the stairs.

She paused outside of Bran’s and Rickon’s door. Was he in there? Or was he down below, or had he gone off to the godswood again? She cracked the door open and saw that the chamber was empty. She chewed her lip and continued towards the staircase.

She went to the main hall and saw Jon sitting on the dais with Sansa and Rickon. Oddly, Daenerys was absent. She rarely was absent from his side these days. He looked tired, but he smiled when he saw her.

“There’s still some bacon for you, if you’d like,” he said when she sat down opposite him, pushing his plate towards her. She glanced at Rickon. He was still growing—she wasn’t. It was as if her brother had read her mind.

“You eat it,” he said. “I had my breakfast, and it’s harder fighting on an empty stomach.”

She ruffled Rickon’s curls, praying he would never know, and popped the last two bits of bacon into her mouth. The salty greasy flavor of it made her smile and she licked her fingers when they were gone. Sansa ripped her bread in half and handed it to Arya, who used it to wipe up the grease from Jon’s now empty plate.

“Maester Wolkan had a raven from the south,” Jon said, handing the scroll across the table to Arya.

_Dearest brother, though perhaps you will not call me sister,_

_I write to you from The Crag, where first I met your brother Robb, and where we were wed many years ago. It had been my dearest hope with the wars ended that I may come north to greet you as a sister, and to know Robb’s family whom he so loved and was so convinced that he had failed before he was slain. When the snows clear, I should like very much to make my way, and to pay my respects._

_I do not have any designs on House Stark, for I know my status as a widow of your house means little and less at this hour. My mother continues to hope to find a Lannister marriage for me, as was her design following the surrender of Riverrun. The King of the Rock, of course, must consent to any marriage I might make, but his fondness for you is known, and I do not fear that he will wed me to any who would prevent my coming._

_With love and devotion,_

_Jeyne Westerling_

Arya read through the note twice before looking across the table. Her eyes found Sansa’s. “Did you ever know her?”

Sansa shook her head.

“I can’t imagine deceit from her,” Arya continued, turning now to Jon, “And with what purpose? As she says, Tyrion’s fondness of you is—”

“I don’t expect deceit,” Jon agreed. “Merely one more person to tell. Robb loved her, and the thing should be done with dignity,” he said. “If she could come to the wedding, perhaps…” his voice trailed away and he took a deep breath.

Sansa pursed her lips. “Do you intend to delay so long?” she asked. “It is the middle of winter—we cannot ask her to come north until the snows have cleared, and perhaps waiting might serve us well, and allow us time to—”

“No. I think there is no need to wait,” Jon said. His eyes were on Arya again, and she met his gaze evenly, not quite sure what she saw there. “We don’t know how long the winter will last, even when the days are growing longer. Summer lasted nine years. Winter may last just as long.”

“Bran says it won’t,” Arya said.

“But he hasn’t said when it will end,” Rickon pointed out.

“Have we asked?”

No one responded.

“When had you had in mind to wed?” Sansa asked at last, drawing everyone’s attention away from Bran again.

“We thought at year’s end,” Jon said calmly. “To give us time to prepare for such an event, and to give the lords…time to grow used to it.”

“Why shouldn’t they be used to it?” Rickon asked. “She saved them with her dragons. Why shouldn’t they like it?”

“Because her father slew our grandfather and uncle, and many of their families died in the war against him,” Sansa replied.

“What does that matter?” Rickon demanded. “Joffrey killed our father, but we still like Tyrion, don’t we?”

Sometimes Arya forgot how young Rickon was. He was the age where he was tall enough to almost look like a man grown, and spoke with a deeper voice than her own, but his questions were of a boy who had spent most of his youth hiding away from the war. She wanted to ruffle his hair again, she wanted to hug him. He was sweet, her youngest brother. And he had her father’s long face.

“I’m more concerned,” Jon said, “with them thinking that I seek to establish a Targaryen dynasty over the north. They crowned me as Ned Stark’s bastard, not Rhaegar Targaryen’s. And now I am to wed a Targaryen.” He ran a hand through his hair, and Sansa glanced at Arya. “I hope that waiting until the end of the year will allow them time to…understand that that is not the intent.”

“Who is your heir?” Sansa asked, her voice delicate, her blue eyes guarded as she watched Jon.

Jon sighed and shook his head. “I do not know.”

“You must have some—”

“I do not know, Sansa. Rickon cannot inherit before Bran, but Bran…” Jon looked suddenly so terribly sad.

“Where is Bran?” Arya asked.

“In the godswood,” Rickon said. “Maester Wolkan brought him out there when the sun rose. He’s been there all morning.”

“Has he eaten?”

None of them knew.

Arya would not go to the kitchens and demand they find food for her, but she would do it for her brother, who so frequently forgot to eat. She rose and without another word departed the table.

“I had a plate saved for you, princess,” Tom said when she came through the door of the kitchens. He handed it to her, smiling.

“Has my brother eaten?” she asked.

“Prince Rickon was at table earlier,” Tom said at once.

“I meant Bran.”

“Ah,” Tom looked crestfallen. “No, I’m not sure that he has.”

Arya nodded and turned, bringing the plate with her and almost ran right into Jon.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked her.

She paused. “No.” It was an easy thing to say for it was the truth.

“You were very quiet,” Jon said. “Do you think I am wrong to wed like this? Sansa does, I know, but you?” He looked as though he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“It’s complicated,” she sighed. “I want you to be happy. That is the most important thing.”

“Truly?” Jon sounded as though he did not believe her.

“Of course,” she said.

“And not the North?”

Arya didn’t say anything. She knew the words she should say—that Jon was king, and his duty was first and foremost to his people—but she couldn’t bring herself to say them. He looked so sad.

Awkwardly she wrapped one arm around Jon. “We’ll figure it out together,” she told him. _We have to_. There was no other way.

Jon seemed to relax at her words. “I know we will, little sister,” he said. She wished her heart didn’t twist every time he said those words. _I never was,_ some traitor corner of her mind whispers. _He’s Jon,_ she berated herself. _He’s your brother. He always has been and he always will be._

She turned away from him, and braced herself for the cold as she went out into the courtyard. The winds swirled snow all around her, and she pushed through the shoveled walkways towards the godswood. She could see the path that Maester Wolkan had carved out through the snow to bring Bran as close to the heart tree as he could. In the distance, she could see his chair.

“I brought you breakfast,” she told him, placing the plate on his lap. “It’s cold now, but you should eat it anyway.”

Bran’s blue eyes were open but when he looked at her, they were unseeing. He had grown a beard that was tangled, and his soft auburn curls were messy as well. She could see frost dusting the hair around his mouth and nose from the moisture of his breath.

_Is this my little brother, who used to climb all over everything?_

“Bran,” she said gently, and she took his hand, kneeling down in the snow by his side. “Bran, it’s me.”

He blinked, and his eyes came into focus. “Lynara?” he whispered.

_No._

“No, Bran. It’s me. It’s Arya. Your sister. Can you hear me?”

“Arya?”

“Yes.” She squeezed his hand, held it so tightly.

“Arya died, though. I saw her. She died beneath the tree, and Lyarra held her and sang to her.”

 _Does he remember me?_ Lyarra was her grandmother’s name, and Arya had been her mother’s name. That must be where Bran was.

“You must remember,” she whispered to him. “Bran, I know you’re there.”

But he didn’t reply. She got to her feet and found the bread and held it to his lips. He sniffed it for a moment, and began to eat. Next came the bacon, and she spooned chilly eggs between his lips as well. When he had finished eating, she sat down in the snow at the base of the weirwood tree and closed her eyes.

_You can’t have him. Not like this, you old gods. You can’t. I won’t let you._

The wind rustled the pine needles and weirwood leaves around her. Had the gods heard her? Were they laughing at her?

* * *

* * *

 

**Daenerys**

Jon had given her the warmest rooms in Winterfell, the rooms that had once belonged to Lady Catelyn Stark. Lady Catelyn, Jon had told her, was a southerner, and had kept her room as warm as she could manage while she’d lived in Winterfell.

None of that mattered, though: Daenerys was still freezing, even wrapped in her hrakkar and the furs, and velvets that had been made for her. _How do men live like this?_ She wondered. _How will I?_

A part of her longed for the warmth of the great pyramid in Meereen, the sun shining, soft silks and the warm breeze off the sea. It was half a world away, now, and not her place anymore. _No place is mine,_ she thought sadly.

There was a knock on the door, and she heard it swing open. “Your grace?”

Dany smiled sadly. “I’m not a queen anymore.”

Misssandei came and sat beside her on the bed. If the Naathi girl was cold, Dany couldn’t tell. She wore furs and leathers as well in a northern style, but she still wore the brooch that Daenerys had given her—the silver three-headed dragon. _What is a dragon queen with no dragons?_ Who had said that to her? Had it been Daario, her brave captain? Or something Tyrion had told her? She couldn’t remember. It seemed as though there were to be three periods in her life—the darkness before the dragons, the brief shining years where their heat had breathed life into her, and now.

“Are you well, my queen?” Missandei asked again, putting an emphasis on the word _my_. Dany could hug her for it. Instead, she squeezed her hand.

 _No,_ was all she could think of. She remembered the feeling of ice on her face, hearing the song of dragons in the air, the feel of Drogon’s heat beneath her as she flew through the sky, the champion of the living. _He is gone. My brothers are gone. My house is gone. What is a dragon queen without dragons?_

“It’s decided,” Dany said at last, and she pulled a smile on her face. She couldn’t bear being sad around Missandei. The little scribe was as dear a friend as she’d ever had. “We’re to wed.”

Missandei smiled as well, but her smile was tentative. Her eyes searched Dany’s and Dany straightened her neck. “I am pleased to hear it,” Missandei smiled.

“I am pleased to tell it,” Dany said. It was the truth. So why did it feel so strange to say? She loved Jon, more dearly than she’d ever loved anyone. And she would be his queen, his bride, and live and love with him for the rest of his days.

_But it is not what I wanted._

She hated the thought in her mind. The lords of Westeros that had overthrown her father now would not even remain united. She could no more force them to than bring her dragons back to life—and certainly not without her dragons. The Dothraki that had followed her across the sea—they could perhaps have helped take the kingdoms, but the Others had killed so many of them, and what remained had lost many of their horses to the cold and the lack of food. She’d even heard whispers from Rakharo that there were those among her khalasar who wished to return to the Great Grass Sea and the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Now that the dead had been defeated, they could return to that place that had brought them life. And her Unsullied… would those who had lived wish to stay with her? They were free men—she had freed them. If they wished to go, she would not keep them.

She had wanted the Red Keep, and to rule in her own right over the entire continent as her blood and honor demanded. She’d never thought to share her rule of the largest of her kingdoms, but the least peopled, in the midst of winter.

It felt a small consolation for her failure, and she hated that.

_I am the blood of the dragon. I will keep my head held high. I shall be a better queen to them than they could dream of._

Dany got to her feet, and Missandei stood as well. “I should…” she should what? She didn’t know. Find Jon? It felt far too much as though those words were reliant on his being king. “I shall walk about Winterfell. Will you accompany me?”

“Of course, my queen,” Missandei said, and the two went arm-in-arm out into the rest of the castle. They passed stretches of the castle where some of Jon’s smallfolk were working. A few of them glanced at her, and one of them even smiled.

“They like me?” she asked Missandei quietly in High Valyrian.

“They call you the hero of the flame, my queen,” Missandei replied smoothly. “You fought for them, and your men died for them.” She did not mention the dragons. She knew it would be painful to hear. Her friend knew her so well. “Do not forget that. Whatever the king’s vassals may say about you—their people know what you have done for them.”

 _Their people and mine,_ Daenerys thought. _Yet they love someone who died alongside her dragons._ How long would it be before everyone saw that?

“Are you speaking Dothraki?” came a voice behind them, and Daenerys and Missandei both turned. Rickon Stark stood behind them. He was tall for his age—taller even than Daenerys herself, but he had the look of a pup that had grown too quickly and didn’t know how his new size felt—all legs and arms. He had the same auburn hair and blue eyes that Sansa and Bran Stark had, but his face was long like Jon’s.

“No,” Dany said. _He will be my brother as he is Jon’s_ , she told herself. She didn’t know him well at all—he was so much younger than the rest of them, and in war, all of his elder siblings had been fiercely determined to keep him safe. _A pack of wolves,_ she remembered thinking. _Is there a place for a dragon in a pack of wolves?_

Ghost and Drogon had gotten on well enough.

“No, we were speaking in High Valyrian,” she replied to him, smiling.

“Oh,” Rickon replied. “It sounded different than when Vrelo and Halahhi speak.”

He pronounced the names easily—better than she’d ever heard a Westerosi person wrap their tongues around the language. _How old is he? Is he older or younger than I was when I learned?_

“The languages have little in common,” Dany said.

“But you speak both,” Rickon said eagerly. “Was it hard to learn? I learned some of the old tongue of the first of men when I was on Skagos, but I don’t speak it all the way.”

“Do you wish to learn Dothraki?” Dany asked him, and Rickon nodded.

“I’ve already started learning some words,” he said, sounding proud of himself. “But words aren’t the same as a language.”

“No, they aren’t,” Dany agreed, a smile playing at her lips. The boy was eager. “Well, I can teach you if you like. And Missandei—she knows more languages than I do.” Rickon beamed at her, and Dany took a deep breath, then added, “We can exchange. I can teach you Dothraki and you can teach me more of the North.”

Missandei gave her a look, but Rickon didn’t seem to notice.

When the boy had gone off, Missandei continued watching her. “What?” Daenerys asked her.

“Nothing, your grace,” she replied. Dany raised her eyebrows, and Missandei grimaced. “I worry is all.” Daenerys squeezed the girl’s arm, and Missandei switched back to Valyrian. “You asked him to teach you of the north. Why him and not Jon?”

“If I am to be his queen, I am to be his equal,” she replied. “We agreed upon it when we agreed to wed. I am not to be his consort, I am to share his burden. So I must know. And if I am to know, I must know from more than just Jon.”

 _If I am to be queen in the north, let me be queen in the north,_ she thought. _But first, I must learn._


	2. Chapter 2

Jon

It was not the first time that Jon had wished that Samwell Tarly had not returned to the south. He missed his friend, his brother in arms, more than he knew how to express.“ _Lord of Horn Hill,”_ Sam had said, shocked.“ _I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch_.” But who else could take his father’s seat now that his father and brother were gone?

He hadn’t realized how sad he’d been to see his friend go. Even when he had sent him south to Oldtown in the first place, he’d assumed, he’d _known_ that he’d see Sam again. And now?

He stared at the ledgers in front of him, more frustrated than he wanted to admit. He remembered nights when Sam had stayed up all night, reading through the records of the Night’s Watch. He’d been excited by reading about what the men had eaten through hard winters. _That’s what made him a good steward._

_And me a terrible one._

Jon had always considered himself a capable man. He’d even dared to call himself a good king. But a king on the battlefield facing an army of the dead was a very different sort of king from one whose job it was to keep his people from starving in winter—and there wasn’t enough food.

And, worse, he could think of nothing to change that.

Jon turned and glanced towards the window. It was a grey day, not snowing and not clear and bright. From the window, he could see the great grey walls of this castle that should have been Robb’s and wished all-too-much that he was outside training in the yard, or doing nearly anything other than reading through the ledgers that Maester Wolkan had given him.

“I need a steward,” he said to himself, missing Satin, who had always been clever and whose sharp eyes never missed any details at all. He wondered what his northern lords would have thought of him taking the boy as his steward in Winterfell as he had done on the Wall. The thought made him sad, remembering as he’d dropped a torch to the pyre they’d burned his body on, as they’d done for so many of his brothers.

Judging from the letter he’d received from Wyman Manderly that morning, they wouldn’t take as kindly to even the fiction of Satin as Jon would have liked. _What fickle men,_ he thought bitterly. _They crown me so long as I would do as they please, but work to undo my power when they don’t like how I use it._

 _Give away the north to painted savages and_ he had stopped reading the letter and had crumpled it in his hand.

So Daenerys’ Dothraki were only as good as the blood they shed in times of war, but in times of peace, they were painted savages? He was quite certain that Lord Wyman had proceeded to speak of the Free Folk who had settled south of where the Wall had once stood. There were fewer than ten-thousand of them by now, a shadow of the great host that Mance had once led, but he was certain that Wyman Manderly would—

But no. Jon got to his feet angrily, unable to keep staring at the neat notes written in the maester’s hand. He went to the window and looked down into the courtyard.

He could see Rickon. His little brother was in the midst of growing, and soon, Jon did not doubt, he would be the tallest of them if he kept going at this rate. He was standing with Grey Worm, spear in hand as the captain of Daenerys’ army corrected his grip. His little brother had begun learning the weapon from the spearwife Osha, and it seemed that Grey Worm was helping him hone his skill. It made him smile.

 _Perhaps if Lord Wyman has a problem, he should take it up with Rickon. He was so determined to seat Rickon in my father’s seat—I wonder what he’d say if Rickon told him to shut up?_ For he did not doubt that his fierce little brother would do just that if Lord Wyman said the wrong thing.

The door opened behind him and he glanced over his shoulder and saw Daenerys coming in, wrapped in wool and velvet with the lion skin that her first husband had given her draped over her hair and shoulders. The lion skin still gave him pause sometimes. He remembered the look in Tyrion’s eyes when he’d seen Dany wearing it and the old hurt crawled back into his heart. He did his best to put the thought from his mind, however. “ _I don’t want your pity,_ ” Tyrion had told him as they’d said goodbye. “ _I can bear the rest, I think. My tired, twisted little heart can manage this one more time. But your pity?_ ” He had chuckled humorlessly as he’d turned away.

The memory did not prevent him smiling at the sight of her, though. Her many layers made her seem smaller than she was in truth, bundled up as she was. He reached out a hand to her, and she took it, and came to stand by the window with him, warmth radiating from her. She looked down and saw Rickon, and smiled.

“I am teaching him to speak Dothraki,” she told Jon. He felt his eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Truly?”

“Yes. He asked me to learn. He’s only a little younger than I was when I learned. I imagine he’ll take to it quickly. He’s already further along than he thinks he is.”

“I had not thought you were so young when you learned,” Jon said quietly.

“I was thirteen when I was sold to Khal Drogo,” she said matter-of-factly, and Jon felt his insides twist. Rickon was only twelve.

 _She is strong,_ he thought, not for the first time. He remembered how petulant he’d been when he’d gotten to the Wall, how he’d wished to leave just because the Old Bear hadn’t made him a ranger. Had she been petulant in the face of the brother who bade her wed?

He sighed again, and Dany squeezed his hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“What isn’t wrong?” She let out a huff of laughter which made Jon’s lips twitch towards a smile. She was so frequently so serious that moments where she smiled were like moments of the sun shining through the clouds.

“My lords bannermen make no secret of their frustrations—even the loyal ones. There’s not enough food, and even if there were, I suspect there would be something else to frustrate them, like as not my choice in a bride. Especially since Manderly outright suggested that I marry his granddaughter Wynafryd in his most recent letter.”

“And are you considering it?” Daenerys teased.

Jon gave her a look. “They want northern marriages,” he said quietly. “That much Manderly made clear. If not me, then…then we’ll have to think of something.” He did not like that thought at all, but could think of others who would like it still less.

“I’m sure that they will manage if their king refuses.” Dany ran a hand through his hair and he closed his eyes for a moment. How to make her understand.

“Manage to be a thorn in my side, you mean. They are determined to have their way and will make their displeasure known at every turn. They can’t complain yet about marriage because we haven’t told them, so they bring up the food, their people starving and how I brought Free Folk into my realm, and see no reason not to throw them out into the snow—and that’s before they bring up the Dothraki and Unsullied you brought with you across the sea. More foreigners.”

He went to the table he’d once seen his father sitting behind and handed her the crumpled scroll. _Uncle_ , came that niggling voice in his mind that sounded so much like Lady Catelyn. _You were never his._ It had once made him angry—now it makes him tired. Perhaps one day he wouldn’t feel anything about it at all. He never knew Rhaegar Targaryen. The man had given him life, but he wasn’t his father. Or so he told himself. It certainly made it easier to let himself love Daenerys when he told himself that over and over again.

She read it, and rolled her eyes. “At least they say it, I suppose,” she said. “No hiding their thoughts on the matter.”

“I imagine there’s plenty Lord Wyman isn’t saying,” Jon replied darkly. “He picks his battles carefully to see what he can get from me and what he must work towards. He was crucial to the overthrow of House Bolton, as he is fond of reminding me, and more than capable of showing the Boltons and Lannisters one face, and Stannis and me a different one. He was the one that found Rickon, and shall never move past that goal of making Rickon lord of Winterfell.”

“Rickon, who is learning Dothraki, and who is training in spear from the captain of my Unsullied?”

“You and I are of a mind,” Jon said, and Dany smiled, her violet eyes soft.

She was so beautiful, and Jon leaned down and kissed her, the taste of her lips calming him for just a moment, the world ceasing to exist beyond just the two of them for as long as they were connected.

It was Daenerys who broke the kiss. “In short, they want what you cannot give, but there is no way for them to understand?”

“They want for the past not to have happened, I think. I cannot undo the past.”

“No,” Dany said, pausing. “No, no one can.” Suddenly, she looked sad, the sort of sadness that cast a shadow over her whole face. Jon did not need to ask what she was thinking of. He knew, as surely as she knew he knew.

“They fought bravely,” he whispered to her, pulling her into his arms.

“Dragons aren’t brave. They are dragons,” Dany sighed.

“If they know fear, they must have been brave. My father used to say that the only time a man could be brave was when he was afraid.” Bran had told him that, during the war, when there had been glimmers of the Bran he’d loved as a boy that flitted across the face of the young man who seemed almost a stranger to him.

Dany pulled away from him and sat down in the chair he had vacated earlier, resting her elbows on her knees. Jon rested a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him slowly.

“It can’t be changed,” she said at last, sighing. “It can’t be. I know that it can’t be. If I look back, I am lost.” She forced a smile onto those gentle lips of hers, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Jon knelt down so that he was looking up at her, and he cupped her chin again.

“You’re not lost,” he whispered. “You’re home.”

It was, it seemed, the wrong thing to say. Far from putting a smile on her face, she leaned back, away from his hand, and she turned her head to look at the window. He saw her eyes shining, but it wasn’t the bright shining, the passionate shining—her eyes were full of tears.

When she looked back at him, she said, “I want it to be. Truly I do. But when will it feel like home, and not like failure? If I look back, I am lost, if I look forward I am lost too.”

“It wasn’t failure,” Jon said firmly. “We lived because of you. We stand here because of you. All of these people, in the North and beyond, they—”

“And Meereen? Word from the ships in White Harbor is that all of Slaver’s Bay has fallen back into slavery, that the Old Masters are in charge. How is that not failure? And even if I could return, how could I take it back with no dragons, and my fighting men diminished as they are? I know what it is to besiege those cities—and I could not win now—not without the full force of Westeros. Was it all for nothing? All those people—enslaved again because of me.”

“Not because of you,” Jon said. “They were _free_ because of you. They are enslaved again because of cruel men who did not like the change you brought.”

“Change like my Dothraki and Unsullied to the North?”

Jon sighed again. “And the Free Folk.” Cregan Karstark had thrown that in his face before even Daenerys had landed on Dragonstone.

“Failure in my past—and this seems so similar. What change can we make that won’t be met with violence? How many of your lords will look at me and see the cause of it?”

“They remember your dragons,” Jon repeated. “They remember you fighting at their sides.”

“Remember, but will not change,” she said. “They know what you can and cannot do, yet they refuse to acknowledge what they can, and cannot do. I trust the man who writes a letter like this far more than I trust those with sweet smiles who try to ease your worst fears. At least he is an honest man.”

Suddenly she leaned down and kissed his forehead. He smiled up at her and stood, leaning against the table.

“I’ve never done this,” he said at last. “Never—not ruled a kingdom. I had a war at my heels when they crowned me, and a wartime king is different from a peacetime one. King Robert proved that, from every account I’ve had of him.”

Dany’s face twisted at the mention of Robert’s name.

“Not least because you must build,” she said at last, looking at him, and she didn’t look sad now. “The North hasn’t been its own to rule since Torrhen Stark bent the knee. Your—your brother wore his crown to war as you did, but he did not build his kingdom.”

“You speak as though the North could not rule itself, as though whatever it was that my father ruled could not stand without the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys paused, considering. “Merely that what it knew was not what it thought it knew. It is a different thing to be a lord and a king. It is a different thing to be a vassal to a king and a vassal to a lord. And that’s before any other changes you would make.”

“You speak so confidently—you make it sound so easy,” he sighed.

“Of course I do. I failed. If I didn’t learn from my failings, I should fail again—as I learned when I saw that I wasn’t learning from my failings. And if I fail again, so too will you.”

That gave Jon pause. He had failed, too, of course. Had dwelt on his failures on how many frigid, sleepless nights when there was only the sound of his erratic heart in the tent. How could his own men killing him not be a failure? Had he learned from it? Had he had time and distance to? Had he even thought them the same thing? It had been one thing to advise Stannis, and then Daenerys, and quite another thing to heed even his own advice.

_I told Stannis that he had to prove himself to the northern lords. Must I still do that? Until the end of my days?_

It was not a promising thought. Had he not already proven himself?

_As a battle commander, not a ruler._

_As a ruler, your men have stabbed you through the heart._

No, not a comforting thought at all. Not least with Lord Wyman’s words so fresh in his mind—that niggling, ever-so reasonable request to know who Jon was marrying, and his sisters, too.

“The food is the issue,” he said at last. “We don’t have enough of it. Too many men went south with Robb to fight and not enough remained for harvest. And then my lords bannermen didn’t store enough—not to mention that the Boltons took Winterfell and misused our stores. People are already starving and we don’t know when winter will end.”

“Could we write to Tyrion? He might have stores saved that he could share.”

She still did not know, then. Or if she did suspect, did not allow for it in her words. That was likely for the best, even if it didn’t change Jon’s immediate reaction. “He’d be a fool to share instead of sell. Any man south of the neck would be. They’ve their own people to feed. Lord Tully might have been convinced, but I couldn’t be the one to ask it.” _It will hurt him. But how he’d hate not being asked if the reason we don’t is that I don’t wish to rub it in his face that she loves me._

“Why not?”

“He is Lady Catelyn’s brother. If her worst fear was that I become Lord of Winterfell in place of one of her sons…” Jon laughed.

“I’m sure that Sansa or Arya would go, and willingly,” Dany said.

“True. But Arya said the riverlands burned during the harvest. They’re likely starving too. The only person south of the neck I’d trust to send me food is Sam—but he is as far south as south goes and again, I cannot see why he should, beyond his love for me.”

“Does the Reach have a winter harvest?” Daenerys asked.

“If they normally do, I doubt they do now. It snowed in King’s Landing. It snowed in the Reach. It never does that. It will have frozen the soil and killed the growth.” Jon laughed. “I could be a farmer. I’d make a fine one, wouldn’t I?”

“A king of corn,” Dany said and that smile was back. She stood and wrapped her arms around him and kissed him again. “We will think of something. We must,” she said.

A shiver ran through Jon. “I like it when you say we,” he told her and bent his head to kiss her once again.

* * *

* * *

  

Sansa

Sansa sat with Bran, her needle in hand, stitching together pieces of a gown that had once belonged to her mother.

She had been surprised to learn that there had been a chest of her mother’s winter gowns that had been spared the fire and the Boltons. Her mother had been less slender than she—she’d born children during the last winter she would have worn these gowns—but they were of a height and the gowns could easily be refit quite prettily.

She had asked Arya if she wanted one. Arya had not worn dresses during the war, favoring instead the leather jerkins and trousers that the men had worn, sometimes with a grey tunic over for additional warmth beneath her furs. But Arya had taken one look at their mother’s dress and shaken her head without a word, chewing her lip, and looking heartbroken.

“ _I miss her too_ ,” Sansa had said, reaching for her sister’s hand. Arya had started at her touch, and it hadn’t been much longer before her sister had fled the room.

It made no matter, Sansa supposed, though she had found Arya’s behavior odd. When wasn’t Arya’s behavior odd? So many years feral—as if she hadn’t been feral when they’d been children—would do that to anyone, she supposed. So she focused on making the dress fit herself. She’d worn Aunt Lysa’s dresses in the Eyrie and at the Bloody Gate, she could wear her mother’s in Winterfell.

She glanced at Bran.

He was asleep, or at least she thought he was. Sometimes she couldn’t tell. She suspected that he pretended to be asleep so that no one would bother him, and would be left alone to his visions, or whatever it was that so preoccupied him of late. She wished he’d talk to her. She wished she could tell him stories like she’d done when she was a girl, wished that she could tell him what had happened to her for she felt as though she could tell _everything_ to Bran alone of her siblings. _He would already know some of it, wouldn’t he?_ She didn’t understand just how much Bran knew.

It wasn’t comforting to sit with him, but it was calming at least. It was quiet, and she could be left alone with her needle and she wouldn’t have to worry about her own dissatisfaction so much. For some reason, she found it hard to think of what she didn’t like when Bran was there—perhaps because her thoughts circled so heavily upon him.

 _“There is something wrong with this,”_ she remembered telling Arya when they’d curled up together in the bed they’d shared as girls. It was a different now than it had been then. How could it not be? But even so…

 _“I know,”_ Arya had replied. “ _I think so too. But what can we do about it?”_

Sansa didn’t know. So Sansa sat with Bran in the mornings before he asked to be wheeled out into the godswood, or, if he woke before she did, in the evenings before he went to sleep. Perhaps just by sitting with him, by being there with him…she didn’t know.

It all felt so rotten without Bran. It was like how Robb wasn’t there too, and mother, and father. Except that Bran _was_ there, he just…wasn’t.

“Jon’s to wed,” she told Bran. “You know that, don’t you? Did he tell you?”

Bran’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked at her, unmoving. “To Daenerys. Yes, I know. I have always known.”

If Bran had always known but had never tried to prevent it, surely it couldn’t be so bad as Sansa feared. Or was that her telling herself that it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared in order to ease her own nerves on the matter? That was what Arya had spit at her during the war, when they’d argued. “ _You’ve always been a liar, Sansa. But the worst part is you lie to yourself.”_

Sandor had said so too, though in different words. “ _You create your own cage sometimes, little bird._ ” But he was dead now. Dead, and his sad grey eyes begging her to burn his body. “ _I don’t want to come back like_ he _did._ ”

She blinked back tears. She remembered the way he had smelled, burning. Had he smelled that way as a child? Had he known the scent of his own burning flesh all his life? _He promised to keep me safe, and he did. A truer knight than he’d ever let anyone call him…_

“At year’s end,” she said to Bran, pulling herself from her own, sad thoughts. “They shall marry before the gods.”

“Yes,” Bran said simply. “I know.”

“Will spring have come?”

Bran did not answer, and Sansa bit back a sigh. She put the dress aside and stood. She would finish it later—tomorrow, perhaps. She was very nearly done. She crossed the room and kissed her brother’s forehead as she had done when he’d been a child. Then she left the room, and went down the stairs.

She nearly ran into Brienne of Tarth when she reached the ground floor, rounding the corner.

“My lady, forgive me,” said the knight.

“Forgive me, ser,” she said, “I was going too quickly.”

“The mistake is mine, I assure you,” Brienne said. Sansa was and always had been, but Ser Brienne—how queer it was to call her that, but Ser Jaime had knighted Ser Brienne, so what else was she to do!—was taller still. “I was just looking for you, actually.”

“Oh?” Sansa asked.

“The king—he’s looking for you and for your sister.”

“Where is he?” Sansa asked, suspecting the solar even before Ser Brienne told her so. She found him sitting there behind the table that her father had used to spend his time behind. Daenerys was sitting next to him, and there was a silver jug filled with wine on the table, as well as four glasses. Arya was not there yet, but no sooner had Sansa settled herself in the seat across from Jon, she came through the door, quiet as a cat.

It still left Sansa uncomfortable, just how _quietly_ Arya could move now. As a girl, she’d been ever noisy, running about and clattering. Not anymore.

Jon reached out and poured them both wine.

“This cannot be an easy conversation, if you are already pouring us wine,” Arya observed.

Jon glanced at Daenerys, and she pursed her lips. “It’s not,” he said. “There are several matters we must all discuss—and seriously. I can’t proceed without you both.”

Arya accepted the wine and sat up in her seat, her grey gaze intent on Jon. _They look so alike_ , Sansa mused. _Far more alike than Jon and Daenerys. Father must have been relieved he did not have Rhaegar Targaryen’s look._

Jon took a sip of his wine, then said, “There isn’t enough food. There can’t be. Word from White Harbor is that the fish in the ocean grow more sparse by the day, and I have similar reports from the western coast as well. There’s some game yet, but I fear that will not last, and what grain we have stored from before the winter is dwindling quickly. It would have been dwindling even more quickly had so many not died during the war.

“The fact remains that we shall starve before the year is out.”

 _Before you shall wed,_ Sansa thought. She glanced at Daenerys. Daenerys met her with an even gaze, but clearly knew where Sansa’s mind had gone.

“What of the glass gardens?” Sansa asked.

“They’ll supply the castle, but not the smallfolk,” Arya replied as one who is inferring the truth, rather than guessing. “When you say we shall starve, you mean your realm, not those who reside within the castle.”

“Even the glass gardens are strained,” Jon said. “There still is not enough sunlight for the plants in there to grow properly.” He glanced at Daenerys, and she added,

“The maester and the groundsmen and I went through together to see the state of things. Unless the sun comes back in force, the earth won’t be warm enough even for potatoes in the glass gardens.”

“Could we not light fires?” Sansa asked.

“I thought the same. The glass is too thin for the heat to keep without the sun,” Daenerys said sadly.

“The days are growing longer,” Arya said. “Mayhaps it will be enough, and soon. But that would still leave food only for the castle—not for the smallfolk.”

“I’ve written to Samwell Tarly,” Jon said. “I don’t expect there is much he can do, but Sam always had a better head for…for stewardship than me. He may well have a solution that I haven’t been able to think of. I’ve written to Tyrion Lannister as well, for council or charity—whichever he’d prefer. I could always buy food, but I already own a significant debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos,” Arya shifted in her seat almost imperceptibly, “and am loath to take out more, especially since even when spring comes I imagine we shall have food shortages and more and more money to spend when the snows have cleared. I will do it, of course, if necessary, but I should like very much to pursue all avenues before throwing Winterfell even more in debt.”

He turned to Sansa, and she knew what was going to say before he asked it. “You wish for me to go to Harrold Arryn.”

Jon closed his eyes, a sad smile on his lips, and every bitter thought that Sansa had ever had flooded her mind. _He’s not even my brother,_ she thought angrily. _He doesn’t know for true what he asks, he doesn’t understand. And yet he asks. He has never once listened to me._

“I would not ask it if I didn’t fear that we’d all be corpses before the year is out.”

 _All be corpses—that was what he’d said about the war too. It was how they’d crowned him—fear of all being corpses._ What good was it if they were to starve anyway? It should be Bran that they’d crowned. _Or you,_ came the voice that sounded like Petyr Baelish.

That, more than anything, made her mind go still. Any voice that sounded like Petyr Baelish was not to be heeded when it came to her family. Not after everything. “I would go myself, to show the urgency to the High King of the Vale and spare you the—” but he cut himself short because Daenerys shifted, leaning forward and looking at Sansa.

“I can go with you,” she said. “The Vale lords remember fighting alongside my dragons. Whatever you may fear perhaps my presence…” but her voice faltered at the look on Sansa’s face.

 _Courtesy is a lady’s armor,_ she berated herself. _Even Arya can mask her face better than you are now._ And yet it felt so freeing, to harden her eyes and feel her lips curling down.

She softened her expression, and spoke. “It’s not your presence I fear, or even the Vale lords memory. It’s…it’s far more complicated than that.” _It’s Myranda, and Lord Nestor, and Harry—Harry most of all._

_Harry wouldn’t refuse Daenerys, would he?_

_He’ll refuse anyone so long as I’m there out of spite alone. She should go on her own and leave me in Winterfell. Perhaps then, Jon will think better of marrying her and marry one of the Mormont sisters, or Lord Wyman’s granddaughters._

There was something wrong with that thought, though, and it took Sansa a moment before she found it. _If he marries one of them, though, what of the rest of us?_

“I appreciate the offer my lady, but what issues there are in sending me forth reside in me and me alone. I doubt that your presence could fix those—if anything, it might make it harder since you don’t know the Vale as I know it, and you don’t know what Lord Baelish did there as I do.”

“Let me help, then. Use my ignorance as a shield.”

To Sansa’s surprise, it was Arya who replied. “Your ignorance may be useful, but I fear what shall happen if you leave but your Dothraki remain.”

“Have you heard something?” Jon asked her sharply.

“Not yet,” Arya replied simply. “But I know how men are, especially when they are hungry.” She turned to Sansa. “I can go with you. King Harrold doesn’t know me at all, and if he fought alongside the dragons, he fought alongside the wolves as well.”

Sansa stared at her sister. To say that she and Arya understood one another better than they had as children was true, but her sister actually offering to aid her in this with a tentative smile? She’d never expected that.

To her surprise, though, it was Jon who said, “No.”

Both of them turned to him. His eyes were on Arya, not on Sansa. _He always loved her best,_ was the first thought that flew to Sansa’s mind. “No, I need you here. The wolves frighten people, though they will not confess it.”

“I can control Nymeria from far away. I did so in Braavos.”

That caught Jon off guard. It certainly caught Sansa off guard. She didn’t understand _how_ her sister controlled her wolf, just as she didn’t understand how Bran could sink into visions of the past. Jon said that his soul had lived on in Ghost during the brief period where his body had been dead as well. _If Lady had lived, would I know?_

It was not the first time she’d been bitter about the death of her wolf, but this was a new flavor.

“It’s not just Nymeria,” Jon said slowly. He glanced between Arya and Sansa, and Sansa didn’t want to hear him fumbling for reasons any longer.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I shall go on my own. It’s better this way.” _They won’t have to see you as Alayne, either_ , she told herself and that cooled the heat her heart. She reached for her glass of wine, taking her first sip. _Arbor Gold. Fitting._

“Bring guards with you,” Jon said.

“I shall ask Ser Brienne,” Sansa replied evenly. “If she was enough for my mother, she’ll be enough for me. She has proven her loyalty thrice over.” Sansa could think of no one she trusted more than Ser Brienne, after all that the woman had been through in her service. She was honorable, loyal, and could best any man in combat. She had saved Sansa from the Vale the first time she’d been there, and Sansa did not doubt she would do so again. _Would that I could have faith in others as I have faith in Brienne._

Jon nodded approvingly, and Sansa leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of the wine.

“There is another matter,” he said, and his eyes were still on Sansa. _What can he possibly still want with me?_ She thought.

The answer came to her as he spoke. “You brought it up the other day, and I have been dancing around it, but it is a matter of importance. Who is my heir, and how, and what does that mean for our house.” _Our house._ He had chosen his words carefully.

Sansa glanced at Arya, but Arya was looking at Jon and didn’t look away.

“Bran is my heir in name,” he said firmly. “Daenerys and I can’t have children, so I—”

“Are you sure?” Sansa asked.

Daenerys gave her a sad smile. “A witch cursed my womb and said I should bear no living children.”

“How do you know she spoke the truth?” asked Arya. “If she was cursing you, she may have had good reason to lie.”

“I’ve seen no sign of her having lied since she cursed me,” Daenerys said softly.

Jon made a noise. “Regardless of that, I’m certain that I could produce no child. It is not merely a matter of her womb.”

“How do you know?” Arya demanded, and Sansa caught a flush creeping up Jon’s face. She took a sip of wine as he answered, slowly.

“Do not make me answer that question, Arya. Trust only that I know.”

Arya rolled her eyes and muttered something in a language Sansa had not heard—Braavosi in all likelihood—before taking a sip of her wine.

“Bran is my heir,” Jon said firmly. “And Rickon after him. I intend to say as much to my lords bannermen when sending word of our marriage and inviting them to Winterfell for the affair. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and the Starks have been Kings of Winter since the Age of Heroes. They crowned me as a Stark and the line should return to House Stark after my time on this earth has ended.”

His eyes went between them and he took a deep breath. “The fact remains that Bran is…Bran. I know not whether he shall ever be fully himself again. Which makes no matter, for there is still Rickon after him. But Rickon is young, and where I could begin searching for a bride for both him and Bran, the simple fact is that for the remainder of my days, it won’t be clear which is truly my heir and I must have some stability with some houses in the north or else whoever is to follow me will only inherit my instability.”

“So who are you marrying us to?” Sansa demanded and Jon winced.

“It’s not like that,” Jon said at once, even as Arya said, “No,” in a harder voice than Sansa had ever heard her speak to Jon.

Jon looked at Daenerys for aid, but she kept her face impassive. _She’s had to marry for politics before, she knows that there’s nothing to be said,_ Sansa thought with a flicker of respect. _She knows she cannot make this easy for him. Or will not, perhaps._

He took a deep breath. “You must understand. I’m a poor king if I cannot ensure that House Stark has the full support of its lords bannermen. Lord Wyman has already asked for me for his granddaughter, and suggested that one of you wed a grandson as well. Lords Ryswell and Flint have also written in recent days suggesting with all the subtlety of a war hammer that each of you be wed to their sons. Any ills that my bannermen may feel towards my marrying Daenerys—”

“So you get to marry for love and I don’t? I’ve been sold in marriage before, and would have been again to the very man you send me to beg food from,” Sansa snapped.

“I’m not asking you to not marry for love,” Jon said.

“Merely to fall in love with one of the sons of our father’s bannermen that it will make—”

“I would have thought,” Jon cut in, flaring at her words, “that you would wish to do all you could to secure the safety of this house.”

“And since your seed fails you, it must be with my womb?” Sansa demanded. “And not with…” _Oh this was carefully done,_ she thought angrily. _Have me prove my worth by bringing food north, then say that it’s not my womb, but my actions that bring strength to the house. But still he’d sell me like a brood mare._

It hurt. It hurt more than she could say, for Jon had always been noble and honorable, like her father.

To her surprise, she didn’t have to keep speaking. Arya had stood up and was staring at Jon, her nostrils flaring. When she spoke, it was quiet, and sincere, and—to Sansa’s surprise—not angry. It was _hurt_ in her sister’s voice. “All my life,” she said so low that Sansa had to lean forward to hear, “ _all_ my life, I’ve had to fight to be what I wish to be. And now you say that I must be someone’s lady wife? Don’t do this to me, Jon. Please. You of all people should know what this command means for me. You’re their king as well as mine. Surely we can think of another solution than _this._ ”

“Arya.” Jon stood too, rounding the table, but he froze, seeing her expression. There was something there that Sansa had never seen and didn’t understand at all. _She looks like a wounded animal._ “Consider it,” Jon said at last. “Please. I do not wish to hurt you. You of all people. Both of you,” he added, nodding to Sansa.

“And yet it hurts. What am I to make of that?” Arya asked and she sounded close to tears.

 _She’s never been wed. She didn’t have Joffrey, or Harry, or Tyrion,_ Sansa thought.  _She never wanted them. I did, and look what I got. She’d have hated it all the more._

Jon reached out a hand to stroke Arya’s hair as he had done so often when they’d been little. “If there is anything that can be done to placate them, I shall, I swear it. We have time. But I’d rather not pretend that this may not be the outcome they push us to—”

Sansa stood too. “I have my journey to prepare,” she said and without another word swept from the room. She cast a glance over her shoulder. Arya had not followed her. _I shall speak with her tonight,_ she thought. _There must be something we can do._

She would calm down, of that she was sure. Even as she made her way through the castle, she was already berating herself her own naiveté. _Of course. Of course I would have to wed a northerner. What else would I have expected?_ Perhaps she was as foolish as Cersei had always called her. Perhaps she’d only dreamed being clever Alayne.

Well, she’d have to do more than dream of Alayne if the north wasn’t to starve. All of this could wait until she’d returned. And she _was_ sure that there was something they could do to avoid it—her and Arya both. There had to be. Even _Jon_ had not seemed happy with the prospect of it.

It was that thought that comforted her now that she was not looking at him. _He is king,_ she thought. _This is what’s expected of a king._ She felt oddly sad for him.

In the courtyard, she found Ser Brienne training with some of the men. “Ser, I have a request of you,” Sansa said when they paused.

“Of course, my lady,” Brienne responded, and she came over to where Sansa stood. Once again, Sansa was struck just by how tall the knight was.

“The king has commanded that I sail south for the Vale,” she said. “I must treat with King Harrold and am loath to go on my own. Would you be so good as to accompany me?”

“It would be my honor, my lady,” Brienne said, her blue eyes shining seriously, sincerely. “When will we depart?”

“Soon, I imagine. There isn’t time to waste.”


	3. Chapter 3

Arya

“ _I know you’re angry with me_ ,” Jon said after Sansa had left the room.

He’d looked so pained at the entire situation that Arya had not known what to say. “ _Surely there are ways that I can serve House Stark without losing myself completely,_ ” had been the words that had, ultimately, tumbled from her lips. Because that’s what it felt like—what Jon’s bannermen were demanding. That everything she’d built herself to be mattered less than the slit between her legs. She’d fought off gods and men, and now the North wished her to smile prettily? Would Jon tell her next that life wasn’t fair for women and bastards as he had when she’d been a girl? Easy enough for him to say when he was a king.

It stung far harder than she wanted it to—worse even than when her father had told her that she couldn’t become a king’s councilor or the High Septon, but that the only path forward was for her to marry and give her husband sons. Her father, who’d hired Syrio to teach her, and who had smiled knowingly when she’d said _No, that’s Sansa_ , as though she would come round.

She didn’t _want_ to come round—not then, not now. It hurt because Jon looked so like father, because Jon had always loved her and understood her better than anyone, and now Jon was king and spoke with a king’s voice. Would King Jon steal all she loved about Jon? Would he be gone too, like Bran?

She wanted to hit something, and her steps took her down to the yard. She saw Rickon training with his spear, and other men with arrows and swords. There was no sign of Brienne, who could so frequently be found training in the yard at this time, but she was sure that Sansa had already gone off to find the tall knight to prepare her for her journey.

She took a practice blade from one of the racks and looked about the training yard to see who she could train with. But no one stepped forward and so she contented herself with exercises to keep her muscles limber, the old ache in her side twinging slightly since she hadn’t stretched properly first. _What husband will want a scar-riddled wife? A wife who could kill him in his sleep with his own sword?_ She swung the practice blade, stopping it precisely, then twisting around and swinging her leg out at an imaginary attacker. _What husband would want a wife who’d hold him at knifepoint if he tried to come to her bed when she did not want him? What husband would want_ me?

Hadn’t that been ever what Septa Mordane had told her when she’d been a girl? _Careful now, Arya, or else you shall be a sore disappointment for your husband._ As if, at her words, she weren’t a sore disappointment for everyone.

The training wasn’t helping—not without someone to truly spar with—and she put the sword back on the rack. Some of the men were looking at her, and Rickon waved at her excitedly when she passed him. She forced a smile on her face for his sake, but pointed towards Grey Worm who was waiting for him to pay attention again.

She crossed the yard again, half of a mind to climb up onto the battlements of the castle and walk in circles around the place until she was too tired to move, or to go out from the gates and walk until she found Nymeria. But the wolf was many miles off, and the pathway took her past the forge. She veered inside it because she could hear the sharp clattering of the hammer inside.

Gendry had his back to her when she came through the door, and she knocked on the lintel as she passed underneath it. He turned, put the sword he was hammering into a bucket of water and laid his hammer down on his anvil. It may have been frigidly cold outside, but the moment she was inside the forge, she found herself shedding her furs and hanging them on a peg and unlacing some of the velvet she was wearing. Gendry was shirtless, and his chest was covered with soot and dark hair. He grabbed his tunic, though, as he came towards her and dropped it over his head.

Only then, did he frown, seeing her face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her.

Arya didn’t know what to say. It hurt to say but somehow it was humiliating to say too. She settled on the simple truth of it.

“Jon would have me wed,” she told Gendry.

His face changed, blue eyes flickering between each of hers. He reached his hand up to run through his short dark beard, clearly unsure of what to say. “To who?”

“I don’t know,” Arya said. “His bannermen want Stark marriages, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s not even something I’m angry at them for wanting. But Jon…” she swallowed. _I do not wish to hurt you. And yet it hurts._ Gods, it hurt so much. “I think he is giving me space in hopes that I will come round to it, and think better of my…” she chewed her lip. “He says we will try to think of something else to appease them. But he hasn’t told them no. I think he worries he can’t so long as he’s to wed Daenerys. I think he’d let me choose, so long as I chose one of his lords bannermen, or their sons.”

“So not a choice at all, really,” Gendry said. “Or not your choice at least.”

Arya closed her eyes, her lips twisting in a grimace. Her throat was thick with tears she refused to cry, and she needed it to go away before she opened them again and looked at Gendry.

“Why you and not Sansa?”

“Oh, fear not. It’s both of us.”

She could tell that Gendry was watching her closely and her own curiosity got the better of her. She opened her eyes, but he wasn’t. He was looking just past her shoulder, off into the distance, a frown on his lips and a more serious expression than she’d seen there in ages on his face. _Usually we make one another laugh,_ she thought. _Ordinarily I come here to tell him something to make him smile. Not to keep myself from crying._ She’d rather die than cry in front of Gendry, and yet, if she had to cry in front of anyone, she’d have it be Gendry. Gendry was a true friend of hers—the best friend she had.

“I’m surprised,” he said at last. “I’d have expected you to rage over this.”

Arya snorted humorlessly. “I tried training in the yard, but no one was there to train _with_ and so I couldn’t actually hit anything.”

“People know to steer clear of you,” Gendry pointed out, and she wished she could laugh at it. But all she could think was _whoever I marry will have to learn that too._

“It hurts,” she blurted out, and looked up at Gendry. “I hate it and it hurts. Robb betrothed me to a Frey, but I never thought Jon would. He understood.”

“Understood what?” Gendry looked like he was trying not to be confused and as though he were afraid of saying the wrong thing all at once. _He doesn’t want me to cry either._

“That I’m not a lady.”

Gendry rolled his eyes. “You’re a lady and you’re a princess. You always have been. You and Ned Dayne talking about your highborn families all the bloody time.”

“I never was,” she snapped. Of course Gendry wouldn’t understand. And suddenly, she was glad that he had said something so stupid, it let her be angry. Angry was easier than hurting every time. “Being a lady is more than just being a highborn girl.”

“Of course, princess,” Gendry said dryly.

She smacked him across the chest. “I mean it,” she snapped. “It is and you know it. It’s…” she fumbled for words, knowing that he was just stupid enough to twist her words around if she didn’t say it properly.

“Fancy dresses and sewing and singing and dancing? You looked ladylike enough in that acorn dress when Lady Smallwood put it on you.”

“And I ruined it just as quick,” Arya retorted hotly. “Ladies don’t ruin gift dresses wrestling on the ground with blacksmith boys. They…”

What did any of this matter? It didn’t matter whether or not she was a lady, what mattered was that she would have no choice, and that it was down to Jon that that was the case. _If it were the Frey boy Robb promised me to, what would I do?_ But she couldn’t answer that. Robb was long dead, and everything would have been different had he lived. _She_ would have been different if he’d lived. Gods she had been so close, and some stupid part of her was still convinced that if only the Hound had let her, she could have saved them both, and then she wouldn’t have found her mother like that, so much later.

“Arya,” Gendry said and she looked at him. His eyes were soft and he was standing quite close to her. “Try not to lose yourself to it,” he said gruffly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re stronger than that.”

“It will mean I lose myself to it,” she said quietly. “Any man I marry won’t be able to handle all of me. I know it. Who could handle all of me? Will I have to make myself small for him? Or make him small for me? Because that’s equally unfair.”

Gendry grimaced. “Then don’t resign yourself to it just yet. He may yet change his mind. You said he wanted to.”

“Which will only dash my heart even harder if we can’t think of something else,” she said firmly. “Nothing about this is good or can be good. I know it.”

“I know,” Gendry whispered, then cleared his throat and said it again louder, “I know.”

They stood there for a moment, then Gendry cleared his throat.

“Do you want to hit something?” he asked her at last, clearly trying once again to make her smile. “Anvils don’t break easily.” He pointed towards the hammer he’d put down.

“Maybe later,” Arya sighed. “I’m sure that when the shock and hurt of it all wears off, there will be plenty of times I’ll need to.”

“It’s here if you need it,” Gendry said, then he added, awkwardly. “He does love you, I’m sure. He’d go through hell to keep you happy.”

It was odd, hearing Gendry defend a king. Gendry got himself into trouble frequently by rolling his eyes about the actions and desires of kings. _It was King Jon that did this, but it’s my brother Gendry would have me remember._

Arya stepped forward and hugged Gendry, hard. He raised his arms and hugged her back, squeezing her tightly.

She stayed in the forge for a long while after that. Gendry returned to his smithing, shedding his tunic again and Arya sat on a bench, listening to the sound of his pounding hammer, steady and loud. When he finished for the day, she helped him clean off his tools and put everything away, then they locked the forge together and went their separate ways—Gendry to whatever quarters he had in the castle and Arya up to the bedroom that she and Sansa shared.

She found Sansa in them, preparing a chest for her journey. “Where have you been?” she asked when Arya closed the door. Arya wanted nothing more than silence, and to throw herself onto her bed, but Sansa’s dresses were splayed all over the bed and so she went and sat down by the window. It was dark outside by now, and soon they’d have to go down to dinner.

“I was with Gendry,” Arya said, not looking at Sansa.

“Oh,” she replied. Sansa never knew what to make of Gendry, but she did understand, at least, that he was Arya’s friend. “Was he helpful?”

“Some,” Arya said.   She didn’t want to talk about it, but was sure that Sansa was about to make her, especially since Sansa was about to leave. “When do you go?”

“Tomorrow before dawn,” Sansa said. “There’s no point in delaying. Every day that passes is one that brings us closer to the end of everything. I spent the afternoon speaking with Jon on the matter—what am I allowed to offer and what’s a proper price,” she shook her head, clearly frustrated. “He is overly optimistic.”

“I wish I were going with you,” Arya blurted out. Not because she wanted to leave Winterfell—or even that she wanted to spend more time with Sansa. But to do something, anything, made it seem less like there was a sword hanging over her head. It hadn’t even been a day and she already felt useless.

“No you don’t,” Sansa said darkly. “I don’t even wish I were going with me. But needs must, and all that.” She gave Arya a serious look. “Don’t decide on anyone until I get back, all right? We can think of something else, and will.

But Arya did not believe her, no more than she’d believed Gendry when he’d said that Jon may yet have a change of heart.

Dinner was a sullen affair, and Arya slept badly that night. When she awoke, it was to find the bed next to her was empty, and that Sansa had already departed.

* * *

* * *

 

Daenerys

There was no knock on her door when it swung open, and Jon came in. Irri and Jhiqui both climbed from the bed on either side of her and left the room together. She’d heard whispers that Irri would find her way to Rakharo’s bed, but she did not know where Jhiqui went. Part of her wished to ask, but part of her suspected that if Jhiqui wanted her to know, she would already know, so she did not. _Let her have her secrets,_ Daenerys thought, as the door closed behind her.

Though she and Jon were not yet wed, it seemed that no one in Winterfell much cared if she and Jon shared a bed before they said their vows—or if they did, they kept the views to themselves. Both were heroes of war, and heroes of war, it seemed, were allowed to bed down with one another for they had proven their worth far more than virtue could.

Jon slid beneath the furs next to her, and kissed her neck, but he did not kiss her more than that. He just held her, and when she reached up to run a hand through his hair, he looked at her and she could see hurt in his eyes.

“Must marriage mean losing yourself?” Jon asked. Arya’s words had clearly stung. He had known that she would be upset, had told Daenerys of it as he’d agonized over the letters from his bannermen. He had feared that she would yell at him, that she would berate him. He had not known what to do at her pain.

Daenerys kissed him gently. “You speak as one who has never wed, and who will wed for love,” she said. “You speak as a man, not a king.”

Jon snorted. “How could I forget. I lose myself to my crown daily.” The amusement in his voice faded. “Is marriage so different? Did you lose yourself when you wed?”

“I have always been a princess, a queen.”   _And now I am neither._ And what would it mean to be queen in the north, when the time came?

“My sisters are princesses, and have been since Robb was crowned,” he replied. His eyes searched hers, and there was sadness there. _What is it that he wishes to know?_ Jon always seemed to know everything. Him seeking to understand this…it was so simple, and yet not.

Dany closed her eyes for a moment, unsure how to answer. “When I first wed Khal Drogo, I was thirteen years old.   I…I must have lost myself to him. How could I not? Who I was before I married him and who I was when my dragons were born weren’t the same, and yet we were. I lost the little girl that I was, I suppose. It wasn’t a bad loss, but it was a loss nonetheless.”

“I suppose it’s not the same thing—when Arya says she will lose herself.”

“No, I suspect not. But that makes it no less powerful, and no less true. Yet a king must make decisions for the sake of the realm that the brother might otherwise not do. It will benefit the realm and so it must be done, unless you either refuse your bannermen or can think of something else.”

Jon kissed her gently, a hand drifting up to cup her chin. “I hate hurting her,” he whispered. “I hate it. She used to come to me crying when Jeyne Poole and Sansa called her Horseface. I hate that I’m the one hurting her now.”

He was trembling, and Dany pulled him close to her and held him, feeling his heart beating its strange tattoo—not quite the usual ka-thump of her own heart, an eternal reminder that he’d died and lived again as once she’d dreamed Drogo would—against her chest.

“Gods be good, what’s the point of a crown if I hurt my little sister?”

“Someone must wear it,” she said, hearing her own voice as if from far away. Why was her voice so far away?

_I’d let his whole khalasar fuck you if need be, sweet sister, all forty thousand men, and their horses too if that was what it took to get my army._

“Dany?”

She felt cold, and she looked at Jon with eyes that took a little too long to see him.

 _It’s not the same,_ she told herself, _It’s not. I refuse to believe that it is. What’s the point of a crown if he hurts her—that’s what he said._

But some niggling voice in the back of her mind whispered, _Is he simply saying it nicer than Viserys did?_

_Viserys never cared about whether I was frightened, or upset. Jon sees no other choice, is being dragged to it by those he rules._

It wasn’t as comforting as she wanted it to be.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her.

“The weight of kings,” she said quietly, and she pulled him closer to her again. She wanted to feel warm again, and wanted to put the thought from her mind. _If I look back, I am lost_ , so she had to look forward. That was the only way, wasn’t it? That was how she’d gotten this far to begin with. And yet what did forward hold for her? Jon, yes—but everything she had fought for had either been gotten or could never be. She loved Jon, but Jon and his north and his home had only recently become her future. And her buried fears that she was not fit for it… _I am lost if I look forward too._ Where could she go when both looking forward and looking back made her feel as though she had already lived her destiny?

“What does that mean?”

“Only…” she takes a deep breath, “only that I know what it is to be sold in marriage by a brother.” Jon stiffened in her arms. “And I know also that the situation was different, as was the brother. But that doesn’t make it sting any less.”

“You think I shouldn’t have them marry then? That I should defy my lords bannermen?”

“No. I think you must,” Dany said, turning her mind as far away from that little frightened girl she’d been as she could. She had ruled Meereen, had ridden dragons to war, had led her khalasar here, where, it seemed, Jon would not make war against them or throw them into the sea. “You are king. You must do what kings do. Not everyone can be happy all the time, and trying to make everyone happy can,” she swallowed, and thought of Meereen and its great pyramids and however many had fallen back to slavery in her absence, “it can lead to failure. You must build, so build, and build well. You’re the one who keeps telling me that a northern king cannot rule if he alienates his vassals. I trust you to know the North better than I do, even when the North is demanding of you that which hurts you.”

“And what would the little girl whose brother wed her to Khal Drogo say?” Jon asked.

Daenerys closed her eyes. “If I look back, _I_ am lost,” she said to him quietly, and prayed he would not press her further.

He didn’t. He didn’t say anything for a long while, and Dany didn’t either. She did not fall to sleep easily, and only knew she was asleep because Drogon was curled around her, perfect dry heat against her skin.

The dragon stretched against her, flapping his wings then stood. He looked down at her, his great eyes flaming red pools. She could lose herself in them, warm and red like that, red like the red door.

He blinked and with the sound of a thunderclap he takes off into the sky, getting smaller and smaller and smaller until he was no bigger than a bird. “Drogon!” she called. “Drogon come back to me!”

But he didn’t. He was gone. She knew he was out there somewhere, he had to be—like when he was gone from Meereen, a great winged shadow. But somehow she sensed that this time he wouldn’t return.

She sat down again, and curled her knees up to her chest and hugged them. She felt cold. It was winter. When had winter come?

Off in the distance she heard a wolf howling. It was joined by a chorus of hundreds, thousands perhaps, howling as loudly as her dragon had roared. _They will eat me alive._

“Drogon!” she screamed again, but the dragon was gone. All there was left to her were the wolves. She could see them in the distance now, getting closer, and closer, and closer and—

She woke to the cold as Jon slipped out of her furs. It was still dark outside and when she made a noise, he glanced at her. “I must see Sansa off.”

Of course—how had she forgotten? She climbed from the bed, shuddering as she went to find herself something simple to wear before layering on velvets, furs, and her hrakkar again. She found comfort in the old lion skin as she always did. She was glad it had survived this far with her.

She found Sansa and Ser Brienne in the courtyard, a pair of chests attached to runners to be dragged behind the packhorse they were bringing with them.

“The road to White Harbor will be hard,” Jon told Sansa as he kissed her forehead. “I shall write ahead to Lord Wyman to let him know that you are coming.”

“Will he know by then?” Sansa asked, glancing at Daenerys.

“Yes. I intend to send ravens out today or tomorrow. I need to think on how to phrase them.”

Sansa nodded. She turned to Daenerys.

“I wish you well on your journey,” Daenerys said. “Stay safe. Stay warm.”

Sansa smiled and dipped her head as Jon turned to Ser Brienne. “I trust you to keep my sister safe.”

Brienne bowed and said not a word before turning to help Sansa up on her horse.

“Wait!” came a voice and Rickon tumbled out of the door to the main keep, looking bedraggled. He pelted towards Sansa and threw his arms around her, seeming in that moment to engulf her. “Come home soon,” he said firmly. “Please.” _He sounds frightened_ , Daenerys realized.

“Of course,” Sansa said gently, kissing her brother’s cheek. “Keep Bran safe.”

“Always,” Rickon vowed and he chewed his lip.

“Don’t chew your lip,” Sansa said, gently, fondly.

“Arya does.”

“She shouldn’t either. You’re a Stark of Winterfell.”

Rickon hugged her again, then helped her onto her horse.

“We’ll be waiting for you,” he said sadly.

“Eagerly,” Jon added, smiling up at her. Sansa smiled down at both of them before turning and kicking her horse forward.

When she was gone, Jon offered Dany his arm and the two of them went back into the castle, Rickon trailing. They broke their fast, and as they were getting up from the table, Jon said, “We should send the ravens. There’s no reason to delay.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it a command, but Daenerys’ eyes were on Rickon as he left the table behind.

“Later,” she said. “I have lessons this morning,” and she hurried after him. “Rickon,” she called when they were in the corridor and he turned to look at her. He looked miserable. “ _fini’s ojil?_ ”

He opened his mouth to try and respond but all he could manage was, “ _Inavva_ ,” before his face crumpled even more.

Daenerys had never had a little brother. She’d never had anyone to take in her arms and comfort as she’d always wished Viserys would have comforted her. But she took Rickon in her arms and held him as he tried not to cry. “She’ll be back,” Daenerys said. “She will be.”

“I hate it when they leave,” he mumbled, and Daenerys glanced about. There was a bench by a window and she led Rickon to it, the two of them sitting down. “Mother and father left, and they died. Robb left and he died. And I know it’s not the same. I know that that’s just some stupid fear from a stupid little boy. But I hate it when they go. I just—I just want us all to be happy, and here.”

Daenerys squeezed his hand. He was so young. “I know,” she said to him gently. “But we are at peace—nothing ill will befall Sansa so long as Ser Brienne is with her, and I’m sure she will wish to return to you as swiftly as she can.”

“I worry they’ll forget me,” he mumbled. “I was always afraid of that. I was the baby. I was always left out because I was too young.”

“They won’t forget you,” she promised. “All the years wanting to return home, and your laughter was part of it.” Rickon looked up at her, confused.

Daenerys smiled. “‘Rickon’s breathless laughter,’ that’s what Jon said once. I didn’t even know you then, but Jon didn’t forget you even if he hadn’t seen you since you were a small child. Sansa won’t forget you, I promise. And I doubt that Arya forgets _anything_.”

That made him smile. Then he chewed his lip again. “Does Bran forget all of us?”

She did not know. She doubted anyone did. “Bran remembers everything. That’s part of the trouble, I imagine. Too much memory.” _I nearly drowned in one sentence from Viserys last night. What must Bran have to navigate to speak?_

The frown on Rickon’s long face reminded her so of Jon that she had to smile.

“Come,” she said. “As we are both here, we might as well continue our lessons. Do you remember your conjugation tables?”

“Yes,” Rickon said at once, looking relieved to no longer be dwelling on Sansa’s departure.

“Good. Conjugate _astat_.”

* * *

* * *

 

Gendry

The Dothraki man was standing in the doorway, watching as Gendry struck the steel over and over again. Gendry didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t spent much time with Daenerys Targaryen’s khalasar, not even when the fighting was at its height. He and his war hammer had been at Arya’s side. He had learned to identify the lead wolves in Nymeria’s pack, but couldn’t tell Daenerys’ Dothraki apart.

“Can I help you with something?” Gendry asked him when he put the sword into water and it fizzled.

The Dothraki man cocked his head, and clearly was trying to formulate the question. Gendry waited. God only knew he didn’t know how to speak any other language—the least he could do was wait.

“You…strong warrior,” the man began with a thick accent. “I remember. Hammer.” He mimed using Gendry’s war hammer. Gendry frowned and felt a twinge of guilt that he didn’t remember the man if the man remembered him. But he nodded anyway, and the man continued. “Why smith?”

Gendry felt his face freeze. He turned to look at the sword in the water. It was no longer glowing.

“The king needed a smith,” he said dully. “And I know how.”

“ _It’s temporary,_ ” Jon Snow had said when he’d asked Gendry. “ _I’m sure when winter has ended, we can bring a new smith to Winterfell. Or you can work on training one yourself. I know you’re a knight. You shouldn’t have to smith anymore. But we need a proper smith and I doubt we’ll find one half so well-trained as you.”_ Gendry hadn’t known what to say to that. He’d had half a mind to tell Jon Snow that there was nothing wrong with smithing, and that just beause he was a king—smiths weren’t the sort of men to look down on. But he suspected that Jon Snow knew that, from the way he’d phrased the question to begin with, so he’d responded, “ _It takes years to train a smith afresh. I started as a boy of seven, and wasn’t good until I was at least fourteen,_ ” instead. That, at least, Jon Snow had understood.

The Dothraki man nodded. “Hliziffo,” he said, pointing to himself.

“Gendry,” Gendry replied. He held out a hand and Hliziffo took it. The Dothraki man had a good grip.

“You make arakh?” Hliziffo asked.

“I haven’t. I could try though,” Gendry thought, his mind already thinking of ways to bend the metal into a smooth curve.

Hliziffo held up a finger and disappeared. Gendry went over to the fire and checked the heat of the two swords in there. He wasn’t sure how long Hliziffo would be—the gesture, Gendry assumed, meant that he would return shortly, so though both blades were ready for the hammer he didn’t take them from the heat.

Hliziffo returned a little while later, a series of metal shards and the curved and twisted base of what must have been an arakh once. “My father’s,” he said. “You mend?”

He looked so hopeful. Gendry took the weapon and looked at it more closely. It was fine steel, and the handle was made of a smooth wood he didn’t recognize. He’d have to be careful with that, or remove it if he could lest it caught fire. “You fought an Other?” Gendry asked Hliziffo. It was the only thing that could shatter steel quite like that.

Hliziffo nodded. “It killed my father,” he said. “This his.”

Gendry nodded. “I can try. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to complete it, but I can try. I’ve never made an arakh before so it may not be exactly the same when I’m done with it.” He placed the shards of steel on his workbench then looked at the handle again. He really didn’t want it to catch fire. Wooden handles were beautiful, and soft to hold, but dangerous in a forge. He found the catch and removed it, glancing at Hliziffo. Hliziffo did not seem to mind. “If I can’t fix it, I shall give you this at least. Something to remember him by.”

Hliziffo nodded, his gaze distant. Then he frowned, thinking. He said something in Dothraki that Gendry didn’t understand, and took his leave.

It was only after he was gone that he realized they hadn’t talked of payment. Gendry sighed. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have a whole khalasar coming to him with requests and he wouldn’t have anything to show for it. _I’ll take it up with their queen if it comes to that_ , he supposed. Besides, at least for now, the challenge was enough for him. An arakh wouldn’t be like an axe, though most axes had curved blades too. And how to make it if he didn’t have a mold for it to begin with?

Very carefully, he supposed.

He went to the fires and pulled out the first of the two swords and set himself to beating the blade as hard as he could.

By the time he was done with both swords, he could hear people in the yard, training. It was nearly time for lunch, and he added another set of logs to the fire before leaving his forge, locking the doors to it behind him. He went to the main hall and found himself something to eat, then sat on his own.

Perhaps the thing he missed most about the Brotherhood was the companionship. He had never been on his own, truly. In Winterfell, there were plenty of people, but they were all northmen and something about their company made Gendry feel an outsider again. They all remembered his father too fondly, an extension of their memories of their beloved dead Eddard Stark, and most seemed to think that the way to his heart was to tell him how brave Good King Robert had been.

Gendry didn’t like it at all. He didn’t care at all about the drunken fool of a king who hadn’t cared that he’d been born, though two of his hands had come and found Gendry in Mott’s forge.

He kept himself to himself, mostly. Once he might have sat with the other men-at-arms in Winterfell, but ever since Jon Snow had told him that he needed a smith, he had the sense that they all looked at him differently. _Smiths are valuable,_ he thought angrily, stabbing his apple cake with his fork. _We work hard, and have proof to show of our work._

Arya slid into the seat across from him with her own apple cake, looking forlorn.

Gendry glanced at the high table, where her brothers and Daenerys Targaryen sat. Daenerys was speaking animatedly with Rickon, Bran’s gaze was distant, and Jon’s eyes were on Arya as she sat down across from Gendry.

A flicker of anger crossed Gendry’s mind. _You hurt her, not me,_ he thought at Jon. But Jon wasn’t looking at Gendry at all.

“One of the Dothraki came to me this morning. Wanted me to mend a shattered arakh,” he told Arya when she did not speak.

She cocked her head. “Are you going to do it?”

Gendry nodded. “I’ve never done it before.”

“Do we have molds for sickles?” Arya asked.

Gendry looked at her and felt a smile creep across his face. Of _course_ it was so simple. “The smithy in Winterfell doesn’t have one I don’t think.”

“That makes sense—it was always more for armor or swords,” she said. Her eyes flickered with a thought she didn’t share. They were always doing that, her eyes. Flickering with things she remembered. He wished he knew where her mind had gone. “But the old smithy in the winter town might have one. I don’t know if anyone’s using it.”

No one was, Gendry knew. It would be a problem come spring when the farmers needed more supplies for planting. _Something to look forward to_ , he thought darkly, since there would be no one else for miles who could wield a hammer like him. He should ask Jon Snow for a strapping lad to teach. Except all the strapping lads were being trained with pike and bow to defend the walls of the castle, since so many hale men had died in the War of the Five Kings and then again in the War for the Dawn.

“I’ll go look after lunch,” he said, and Arya smiled.

“I’ll come too. I could do with a walk and I haven’t been outside of the castle in ages.”

How strange it was that he could be both sad and angry about that on her behalf. He refused to pity her, though. He knew she’d hate that. He hated the idea of pitying her. So he agreed and when they cleared their plates they went off together.

The winds picked up the moment they were outside the walls of Winterfell, and Gendry pulled his cloak tighter around him. _The forge spoils me,_ he thought. He could forget it was freezing outside when he was so hot and sweaty that he had to take off his tunic and shirt. Arya seemed more accustomed to the cold, or did a better job of hiding it if she were.

The forge in the winter town was small, and—to Gendry’s surprise, there was smoke coming out of the chimney—not very much, but enough to see that there was a fire. Gendry knocked on the door of the forge and it cracked open and he saw a woman with light brown eyes and wrinkles on her forehead. She looked first at Gendry, then at Arya, and swung the door open fully, bending her knee. “Princess,” she said at once. “Forgive me—I wasn’t sure who—”

“What’s your name?” Arya asked, not unkindly. Her eyes were sweeping the room behind the woman, as were Gendry’s. There were anvils and hammers, poles and pieces of farm equipment. But most importantly, he saw that there was a fire in the fire pit and there was definitely steel sticking out of it.

“Marya of the Rills, princess,” the woman said.

“Is this your forge?”

“My husband’s, princess. He died during the war.”

Arya made a sympathetic noise. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said.

“Please, come in. I know it’s cold,” Marya said and Arya and Gendry stepped inside. The widow closed the door behind them. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, looking nervously between them.

“Gendry has need of a mold for a sickle. We’d thought to come and see if there was one to be used here, but if the forge is still functioning…” she looked at Gendry as if unsure how to proceed.

“Who is smithing here?” Gendry asked, looking around.

Marya squared her shoulders. “I am. I took up my husband’s trade.”

“Did he teach you?” Gendry asked her.

“I’m teaching myself,” she said. “Or at least…I’m trying to. My father was a smith, and my husband as well. I am pieceing together what I know.”

Gendry stared at her. She was old enough to be his mother, and was built like a barrel. Perhaps she was like Ser Brienne—stronger than men might think her. “Do you have a sickle mold?” he asked her.

“I think so,” she said slowly. “I’d need it at some point when the snows clear, though likely not before the harvest.” She looked nervously between them, as if frightened that one of them would just take it from her.

“Might I borrow it?” Gendry asked slowly. “Or—” He looked at Arya, and remembered Jon’s words about finding an apprentice. “I could try and teach you if you like. I’m the smith in the castle. I don’t know much of making harvesting tools, but I can teach you to beat steel properly and…” he let his voice trail away. It was a foolish idea, surely. She was a widow, and old, and a woman besides. “Or if you have a son I could teach, I could take him.”

“Only daughters,” she replied. She glanced at Arya, concern on her face. _She worries about being alone with me,_ Gendry thought. He couldn’t even blame her—he’d heard too many stories of what happened to women alone with strange men when he’d been smithing in the riverlands, and before then too. She must have heard even more.

“Gendry will teach you well,” Arya said at once, understanding exactly what Gendry thought was the truth as well. “He’s my best friend, and a fine smith. If you’d like to learn, the castle will even feed you while you’re working.”

Gendry nodded, and Marya looked between them. She took a deep breath. “Perhaps once or twice a week. I don’t want to be far from my girls,” she replied.

“Of course,” Gendry said, inclining his head.

“The molds are this way,” Marya said, leading him to rack in a corner. Gendry spotted on that might work. He’d have to find Hliziffo and see if he had another arakh he could compare the shape to.

“You’ll truly teach me?” Marya asked as they were preparing their goodbyes after determining that Gendry was both big and strong enough to carry the mold. Arya offered to help if necessary, but Gendry didn’t think she’d need to. “You won’t take the forge from me?”

“Why wouldn’t I teach you?” Gendry asked at last.

“I’m a woman.”

“And I’m a bastard, and there were monsters made of ice who came south to kill us all.” He shrugged. “If you want to learn, you should learn. Smiths are valuable.”

“So are women,” Arya added, glancing at Gendry, who nodded in agreement.

“Thank you,” Marya said. She looked as though she didn’t truly believe them, but Gendry found that he didn’t care. She had no reason to yet. The lessons would show her.


	4. Chapter 4

Brienne

The road was bitterly cold.

Brienne had known that it would be, of course.  The winds had blown white across the snows every day—she’d seen it from the walls of Winterfell when she’d gone up there.  The wind had whipped cold against her face, drying her skin, and she’d always been glad to return down the steps and into the protective walling of the castle, where the wind wasn’t so sharp and where, when she went inside, the air was nearly warm.

Brienne had never been so glad for the weight of her armor, the leather lining to it, the layers of woven wool between her linen undershirt and the cold.  She’d never been gladder of fire when they stopped and made camp in the ice, and had never been gladder of company, for what poor fool would ever travel this cold on their own?

 _At least when I was riding about looking for her, it was still autumn, and below the Neck besides._ There’d been snow as far south as the Mander, she’d heard.  She wondered if there had been any at Evenfall, where her father waited for her to return.  She prayed that there hadn’t been, that the seas had kept the island warm and that her father had only known peace.

Little had she dreamed when she’d quested for Sansa, Oathkeeper at her side and Podrick trailing her, that she would be taking Lady Catelyn’s daughter back to the place where Brienne had found her.  Something in it seemed wrong, and yet there they were. 

If Lady Sansa was cold, she did not show it in her thick cloak and heavy velvet gown.  She did not complain either at the necessities of the road, though she did not seem comfortable with it either.  _She’d prefer to ride in a wheel house, or sail—not ride,_ Brienne thought.  If they’d had more time, perhaps, it could have been arranged—a sledge to take her south to White Harbor and, she prayed, a ship to brave the winter winds.  But there hadn’t been time to have a sledge built for the purpose, and Lady Sansa had straightened her shoulders and carried on with a sturdy set to her jaw.

 _Her mother’s daughter,_ Brienne thought, remembering Lady Catelyn on the road back from Bitterbridge. And to know that the daughter trusted her as much as the mother—that made Brienne’s heart swell.  She had never doubted that Sansa trusted her; but to be asked to take her solely into her care on such an important mission to the south—that was quite a different matter.

Lady Sansa, she thought, had Lady Catelyn’s poise.  She was tall, and slender, and spoke eloquently.  She’d ever been gracious to Brienne, and had never remarked upon the great scar on Brienne’s face.  She did not avoid looking at it, the way so many did, frequently whispering behind their hands how terrible it was that a woman so _ugly_ could be made more so by disfigurement.  But she did not recoil in her gaze.  No, no, she simply looked at Brienne, and smiled, and had the look of someone who saw much but didn’t always remark upon it.

“I am sure this is not what you’d hoped for when traveling,” Brienne said after three days on the road. They’d found an inn that was nearly empty.  The innkeep, a shriveled old woman, had two children who she said weren’t hers who helped her keep the place clean.  What they did for food, Brienne couldn’t even begin to guess for there were no other travelers so far as she could see, and neither the old woman nor the young children were strong enough to brave the cold for a hunt.

Brienne paid for the rooms with some of the gold Ser Jaime had provided her how many years before. She had spent so little of it since she had found Lady Sansa that it seemed as good a time as any to spend it again. They ate a watery stew and went to bed—not with full stomachs, but at least they weren’t cold.

“No,” Sansa had replied simply, “But I’d not hoped to travel at all, so it doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll reach White Harbor soon,” Brienne said.

“No,” Sansa had replied dully.  “We shan’t.”

Lady Sansa had the right of it, most unfortunately.  The winds and snows were hard to travel on, and while Brienne was confident that they could have reached White Harbor swiftly, the roads weren’t clear and the horses were not content to be riding through the frigid cold—though they liked stopping even less.

Brienne didn’t know what to say.  She’d never been much of a conversationalist.  It was something both Ser Jaime and Ser Hyle had remarked upon. She expected that Lady Sansa was far too used to genial conversation for her to feel fully comfortable in the silence, and so every now and then she’d try to think of something to say.  Odd that it had never troubled her before, though they had been traveling partners before.  Perhaps the presence of her squire then had broken down a barrier that was here now.  Podrick was the same age as Lady Sansa, after all, and they’d known one another in King’s Landing.  Three provided more opportunities for conversation than two, and the burden of keeping Lady Sansa entertained had not fallen solely on her shoulders. 

And she so did wish to keep her at least somewhat entertained.  The journey was hard, and Lady Sansa was a brave woman, and a gentle one—the least Brienne could try to do would be to make it easier for her.

“Did you know winter as a girl?”

“No.  I was born in the spring, and Arya at the dawn of the long summer.  There were summer snows, when I was a girl, though.”

“Snows like this?”

“No,” Sansa said darkly. “Never like this.” She paused and asked, “What were winters like on Tarth?”

“Cold,” Brienne said at once.  “Once I might have complained of it, but being in the North has taught me the difference between cold and freezing.”

“It burns, this cold, doesn’t it?” Sansa said, and Brienne agreed, but didn’t know what else to say and so they fell silent again.

Days pressed on, and they made their way along the frozen banks of the White Knife, pushing as far as they could in the dark before and after the sun rose and set for the brief hours each day that it hovered just over the horizon, leaving the sky to be the color of Lady Sansa’s hair.

Days bled together, for that was what happened when days were more nights than days.  The horses were sturdy things—Dothraki mounts that Daenerys Targaryen had given all of them for the ride.  “ _Their riders fell in war,”_ Queen Daenerys had said, “ _May they bring you greater fortune._ ”

They seemed to well enough, though they liked the cold no more than their new riders.  Brienne’s teeth chattered when the wind was high, and Lady Sansa pulled her hood down over her face as low as it would go, though the wind would frequently blow it back off the top of her head.

They ate their food sparingly—as sparingly as they dared, and would pause in the woods at the sight or sound of life in case it was an animal to kill, skin, and cook.  Brienne found a snow hare more than once, and she didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything half so sweet as unflavored rabbit on a frigid winter’s day.

“I suppose my father always did warn me that winter would be brutal,” Sansa muttered as she bit into the hare.  “But I don’t suppose I understood just how bad it would get.”

“You were a child,” Brienne said, before adding, “of the long summer.  No matter how well he explained, he could not have known.  My father always told me that Northmen were made of sterner stuff for they have to endure this cold.  I thought I understood when I was a girl living through my first winter…But I didn’t.”

“What is your father like?” Sansa asked Brienne, tugging her cloak more tightly about her.  In the firelight, Brienne could see that her lips were chapped and her cheeks bright pink from wind and cold.  Her auburn hair poked out from under her furs as well.  Somehow, despite all that, she still managed to look beautiful in a way that Brienne never had, her eyes shining in her face like that.

Brienne blinked for a moment, needing to recover slightly and consider the question.  “He’s…” But she paused.  It had been so many years since last she’d been to Evenfall, since last she’d walked her father’s halls.  She felt shame in that.  He was not a young man, and she was his last surviving child.  Was he lonely without her?  One more thing she had failed in, she supposed.  “He is good, and fair, and kind,” she said.  “He cares about honor, and about his smallfolk.  He tries to keep peace.  He’s a loyal man…” her voice trailed away and she looked at Sansa. 

 _She looks so like her mother._ Lady Catelyn had been beautiful too, and kind, and clever, and strong. Her daughter was all of those as well.  “When your lady mother spoke of your father, I always rather thought she was speaking of mine when she described him sometimes,” she said slowly. 

Sansa’s lips twitched in a slow smile that did not quite reach sad eyes.  “Then he must be a good man,” she said quietly.  Then she pulled her chapped lips between her teeth.  “I am jealous—my father was taken from me so very young.  Sometimes I think I remember more clearly what people have said of him than him.”

“What do you remember?” Brienne asked her, and Sansa gave her a look she did not understand.  Then she took a deep breath.

“I remember feeling safe,” she said, “and having faith that the right thing would happen because my father was always fair.  I remember trusting too much because my father was so trustworthy.  But I can’t remember why I trusted him.”

“He was your father,” Brienne said automatically.

“Yes, I suppose,” Sansa said.  “I suppose that would be enough.  He was always gentle, and brave, and honorable.  But the older I get the more childhood seems like a dream that I woke up from too long ago to remember the details of.  And what a world I woke up to…”  She sighed.  “Still. I think all of that is true.  I know he loved me, and I loved him.  I know he would have done anything to protect me, and did his best to, though I didn’t understand why at the time.  I know he cared about doing the right thing in the right way…” her voice faded away and she looked lost, then she let out a laugh.  “I so wanted singers to come to Winterfell, and when one came, I begged father to make him stay, but father would not keep the man against his will.  He cared about the will of those around him.”  Her voice was oddly hard, and Brienne frowned.  _Does she think of Lord Baelish?_ Brienne wondered.  Lady Sansa was ever careful not to mention Lord Littlefinger except in rare instances.  She kept her lips sealed about what her life with that man had been like, and Brienne would not press her.  She was sworn to serve Lady Catelyn’s daughters, and if Lady Sansa did not wish to speak of that time, then she would not force her to. 

 _Gods only know that she has a right to her privacy,_ Brienne thought. 

“He’d be proud of you—your father.  I’m sure of it,” Brienne said at last.  “I know your mother would be as well.”  That was the truth.  Lady Catelyn—the _real_ Lady Catelyn, not the cruel revenant with a heart of stone—would have smiled proudly at her graceful daughter, riding out into the winter on a quest the likes of which lesser men would balk at.  And if Lady Catelyn would be proud, surely the noble, honorable Lord Eddard would be too.

Sansa gave Brienne a soft smile.  “I hope so,” she said quietly.  “And your father—I think he’d be proud of you as well.”

A lump caught in Brienne’s throat.

“I hope you are right, my lady,” she said thickly.

“I know I am,” Sansa replied and her eyes burned with the conviction of it.  Without even a moment’s hesitation, Sansa reached out and rested her hand on Brienne’s arm and it was as though heat were spreading from Sansa’s body to hers.  “If he is not, then he is not the man you say he is.  And I believe he is, for what other man could have raised you?”

Brienne did not know what to say to that at all, but Sansa did not seem to expect an answer. 

It wasn’t until much later, as Brienne sat watch in the night while Sansa slept as close to the fire as she dared without fear of sparks that might catch to the furs, that Brienne thought to say, _and what other man could have raised you?_

And a cool, creeping fear crossed her mind as she remembered where they were going, and what had brought Lady Sansa there the last time.

* * *

* * *

Gendry

Gendry waited several days to see if Marya would truly come.  She did at the beginning of the fourth day, hovering by the door of the forge as he used the bellows to blow hot air into the coals.

“You have no apprentice?” she asked him.

“It’s temporary,” Gendry grunted.  Marya looked about the forge as he finished preparing the flames. 

“How long have you been smithing?” she asked.

“I began learning when I was six,” Gendry replied.  “My mother indentured me to Tobho Mott, an armorer in King’s Landing.”

“You’ve come far,” Marya said.  “She must be proud.”

“I wouldn’t know. She’s dead,” Gendry replied. 

Marya made no sound of sympathy, no sound of pity.  Gendry was oddly relieved of that.  He couldn’t remember his mother’s face, mostly the drunken way she’d shouted at him to get out of her way, and cursing the day she’d gone and whelped him. 

Marya was a quick study, he found, and did not complain of the heat or of tiring muscles the way he’d feared she might.  He showed her how to read steel and iron, to see what could be melted together without risking the quality of the metal and what should only be used for scrap.

“Scrap for swords,” Marya corrected him when he said it.  “It will do just fine for farming—nicer than what most are used to.”

Gendry froze.  She was right, of course.  “If we ever see spring again,” he only half-japed.  The fact that the sun had return was already a strong sign that spring would come one day, though when he had no way of knowing.  _Lord of light, protect us from the darkness_ , he thought, remembering the old prayer that he had learned from the Red Priest, Thoros of Myr before the man had died.

She stayed for several hours, and when she left, Gendry turned to the project he’d been putting off. The shards of Hliziffo’s arakh still sat on his work bench and he went to them at last.  The steel was good steel—some of the finest he’d seen since he’d left King’s Landing—and would sing a fine high song when he was crafting it, he was sure.  But before he set it to melt down, and fetched out the sickle mold that he’d taken from Marya’s forge several days before and examined it more closely.  The curve was not quite curved enough—at least as far as he could tell.  _I should see if I can find an arakh one of them could lend me,_ he thought, _to make sure I get the arc right._

He looked around the forge. It was near enough the end of the day that he could easily stop for now.  He’d worked long and hard enough—and besides, who would stop him?

That thought more than anything made him set his work aside, find the shirt and tunic he’d shed earlier that day and step out into the icy courtyard.

He saw Rickon Stark training with two Dothraki children about his age—one of them held an arakh.  _Definitely more curved than a sickle._

It was oddly satisfying to look around the yard and see men training with steel that he’d forged.  _I wish I were training with them._

“Get your hammer.” Arya was standing behind him, and he was glad that he didn’t show any of the surprise at her presence that he felt. She’d always had a tendency to show up where he was.  He’d have been more surprised if she weren’t there.  When he turned, she had her sword in hand—not the little toy one she’d clung to as a girl, nor the Valyrian Steel sword she’d wielded during the war—a simple blade with a sharp edge.

One he’d forged.

“Or,” Arya said, a slight smirk on her face, “Would you prefer not to?  Are you afraid?”

“Never of you,” he replied dryly. 

“You seem it, if you’re afraid to fight.”

“A blacksmith has no need to train,” Gendry said wryly, but that only made Arya’s eyes seem to glow.

“A knight does,” she retorted. 

“And a princess?”

“Especially a princess.”

Gendry went to the racks. He had his own war hammer, of course, one he’d forged himself, as carefully as he’d made his bull head’s helm, but that was far off in his chambers, too heavy to carry about with him the way that most of the northmen carried their swords.  He’d never been much for a sword, but he suspected that if Arya truly did wish to spar with him, a war hammer might not be the proper weapon for it—especially if she was unarmored.  He grabbed a sword instead, and returned to the center of the yard.

She stepped forward as he prepared his stance, but her sword wasn’t raised.  “You’re holding it wrong,” she said and her hands came to his as she corrected his grip.  “And you are hunching down too much.”  She reached up to square his shoulders for him.  She glanced up and down, sizing him up, then raised her own sword. 

He’d never sparred with Arya before.  When he’d fought with others he’d always managed to feel big, and strong—nearly unstoppable with his height and strength.  He was _strong_ , smithing did that to anyone.  But Arya was quick—faster than anyone he’d ever fought before.  And, worse, she was better than he was.  The sword was like a part of her arm as she danced around him, dodging his attacks and parrying lightly when she didn’t dodge.  She didn’t attack, he noticed.  She was watching him carefully, and there was light in her eyes and every time their steel connected with a sharp ring, a slight smile curved at her lips.

“You’re going easy on me,” Gendry grunted at her angrily as she danced away from him again, ducking under a swing. 

“Of course I am,” Arya said and with a move so fast he didn’t have time to understand _how_ , she’d disarmed him and the tip of her sword was at his throat.  “You swing your sword like a hammer.  You shouldn’t.”

Gendry glared at her. “Well, what did you expect?”

“Next time, you’ll be better,” she shrugged.

She bent and picked up the sword she’d dislodged from his hand and Gendry’s eyes fell to her hips. She had a woman’s hips now—not wide, but a woman’s hips nonetheless.  _Stop it,_ he told himself as she handed him the sword again before walking away.  Her having a woman’s hips meant little and less.  She was a woman, after all. 

But he had to shake himself three more times before he fully turned his mind away from them, and he had to force himself to approach the two Dothraki that Rickon—training done with for the moment—was chatting with. 

“Hello,” Gendry said, glancing at the two of them.  They were both bundled up in furs, and he hadn’t noticed until he’d come over that one was a girl.  “Could I ask a favor?”

Both glanced at Rickon, who said something in halting Dothraki.  The girl corrected one of his words, and he adjusted what he’d said.  Then she responded.

“She says it depends on the favor,” Rickon replied.  He had a curious look in his eyes.

“I’m reforging an arakh, but I’ve never made one before.  Do you know of one I could use to make sure that the shape of it’s right?”

A look of horror crossed Rickon’s face.  Gendry frowned and Rickon said, quickly, “Sorry—I…I don’t know how to translate that easily.  But I’ll try.”

He squared his shoulders and began speaking haltingly.  At one point, he mimed hammering, and pointing towards the forge.  The two got the idea. 

The Dothraki boy looked at Gendry, then said in broken common, “I look.  Should find.”

“Thank you,” Gendry said, relief filling him.

The young boy and the young girl glanced at each other, then at Rickon, then said, haltingly, “Welcome.”

“You’re welcome,” Rickon corrected.

The girl asked something in Dothraki, and Rickon replied.  The girl rolled her eyes, and Rickon snorted. 

Gendry had no idea what was going on.  Rickon saw his confusion, and said, “There’s no word for ‘thank you’ in Dothraki. Gratitude is shown only when gratitude is meant and can’t be reduced down to a simple phrase.  They think it’s silly and disrespectful that we have that.”

The girl shrugged and the boy nodded.  Gendry wasn’t sure if either of them had understood Rickon’s words. 

Gendry tried again. “Your help will allow me to complete this request from Hliziffo and is—”

“For Hliziffo?” the boy asked, cutting him off sharply.

“Yes,” Gendry replied, and the boy’s face shone with admiration.  He spoke to Rickon, speaking so quickly that Rickon had to stop him and make him slow down again.

“He says that Hliziffo is a hero, and brave warrior.  He says that to help you help Hliziffo is an honor.”

“Right,” Gendry said, smiling at both of them, pretending he knew all that as well. 

“I will find arakh for you,” the boy said, and Gendry smiled, at him, relieved.

* * *

* * *

Jon

The first response to the news that Jon had sent throughout his kingdom comes from Karhold.  _What joyous news, my king,_ Alys Karstark had written in a long and looping hand.  _I wish you the greatest joy in your betrothal and hope that you shall find as much joy in marriage as I have._ She proceeded to provide him with news of the castle, of the smallfolk who were sheltering there along with Sigorn’s Thenns to wait out the worst of the winter.

Jon read her words carefully, and heard what she didn’t say explicitly: there wasn’t enough food to wait for winter’s end.  Thenns were going on rangings farther and farther north, for what sparse game they could find, but it was increasingly to no avail.   _If we aren’t careful there will be no game to be had at all come spring, and then we will still be in trouble._ Perhaps it might not have mattered in other winters, but with the Neck now shattered there wouldn’t even be the errant herd of deer that might accidentally push north. The Karhold’s castle stores were dwindling, and every day, they danced a dance of what was wise to keep them alive and what was necessary to keep their smallfolk alive. 

“I hope the tidings aren’t ill,” Daenerys asked, reading his face and reaching out a hand to rest on his. They were seated at the high table with Arya and Rickon and Bran for dinner.  He squeezed her hand. 

“Food.  Always food,” he said.  “Hundreds of thousands of people, and not nearly enough food.  But Alys Karstark and Sigorn of Thenn wish us well in our plans to wed, and Alys says that if the snows allow they shall both be in attendance.  Provided, of course, we can feed enough guests to have it be a public affair at all.”

From a lifetime ago, Jon remembered King Robert coming to Winterfell, and just how much had been required to provide proper accommodation and entertainment for the king.  How much had King Robert’s stay cost House Stark? Had his father managed to afford it easily, after a long and bountiful summer?  Not for the first time, he wished that Maester Luwin’s meticulous records hadn’t been burned, and that Samwell Tarly weren’t so far to the south that his friend might take dual joy in reading them and helping him.

“There will be food enough,” Daenerys said.  Jon resisted asking her _when_ and _how_ , for she had no stores of food that he knew of—only mouths to feed as he did.  He glanced at Arya, who met his gaze evenly.  He tried to believe that it was no different from the way it had been before, but he couldn’t quite be sure.  When she’d been a girl, he’d been able to read her face perfectly, but somewhere over the years she’d mastered it so well that at times he wondered what she truly thought.

“We will think of something,” Arya said and smiled a small smile.  “It won’t be easy, but winters never are.  ‘The hard times,’ father called them.”

A rush of warmth flooded into him at the sight of her smile, and he almost felt comforted.  “Do you suppose that Sansa has arrived in White Harbor yet?” he asked no one in particular.  The sooner she got there, the sooner she would be on a ship to the Vale and the sooner, perhaps, all this would be resolved.  Arya grimaced and shook her head, not knowing, but to everyone’s surprise it was Bran who spoke.

“Not just yet,” he said. “Though soon.”

He did not continue, and continued eating through his dazed expression.

“Are you sure?” Jon asked.

Bran didn’t reply and Jon glanced at Arya yet again.  This time, she did not smile.  This time, she looked truly heartbroken. 

“I need a proper steward,” Jon sighed.  Ned Stark had had Vayon Poole, and Jon… Jon had himself and the maester, but Wolkan was overburdened of late.  Next to him Daenenerys paused and he looked at her.

“I…” she began warily before continuing.  “I could offer you Missandei.  She has ever served me loyally and well, and I’ve never known someone with a quicker mind for the sort of work you need help with.  She is subtle, hard working, clever—instrumental to any ruling…”

Jon felt his face crack into a smile.  “I’d happily accept her help, if she’ll give it.”  Missandei was no Sam—no one could ever be to him what Sam was—but he’d only ever been impressed with Daenerys’ scribe.  And if it meant that Daenerys’ learned more of northern rule through her friend, that could only be a good thing, for he did not doubt that Missandei—clever as she was—would learn swiftly.

The next raven that arrived came three days later from Alysane Mormont on Bear Isle.  She bade him good fortune in his wedding, and he searched her words too for any sign of starvation, and was almost relieved to see no signs of it.  _She may simply not be showing those signs,_ he thought gloomily.  She would, though, in time.  _Perhaps I should go and seek them out myself.  I am their king, and should know the states of each of my bannermen’s holdings._ Had his father done that in winter?  What had Lord Mormont done on the Wall?  He’d never had time to learn.

The third raven was not a raven at all, but Brandon Tallhart, the lord of Torrhen’s Square. He arrived through the gates of Winterfell just before sunset with a group of three other riders, and took a knee in the snowy courtyard before Jon.  “Your grace,” he said in a musical tenor, “I’ve come to wish you well in the name of your wedding,” he said.

“And we are glad to have you,” Jon said warmly, extending a hand to Brandon, who shook it firmly. “Your brother is well?”  Jon remembered that the boy—man—had been of an age with Arya.  Had she fought alongside either of the Tallharts?  Even as the thought crossed his mind he felt his heart twist.  The thought itself felt like a betrayal, and he could still see her wounded face when they’d spoken before Sansa had departed. He took a deep breath.  _It is likely why Tallhart has come in person,_ he thought.  _That is why I must not pretend it is not what they want.  Why I must._ He was king.  He must be king before he could be brother.  Yet it hurt him to hurt her.  Perhaps when Missandei was his steward, he’d have more time to think on a solution to all this while not lost in the castle’s recordkeeping.

“Well enough, thank you,” Brandon said.  “He tires of winter, but such is the nature of we summer children, isn’t it?  We must learn the North as our forbears did.”

Jon inclined his head. He ordered the horses be brought to the stables and nodded his head to Maester Wolkan, who understood that he must see rooms prepared for their guests. 

“Was the trip hard?” Jon asked when they had entered his solar.  There was a fire crackling merrily in the hearth, and he hung his cloak from a peg on the wall.  Brandon did the same, then sat opposite Jon, who found a bottle of mead and began pouring it into two mugs. 

“Winter is hard,” he responded evenly.  “But I’d prefer a hard ride through safe snows than battling against whatever evils we might once have faced.”  He raised his mug to Jon.  “To the King in the North and the dragon queen.”  Jon inclined his head as he raised his mug, then drank deeply.  “And where is our fine queen to be?” Brandon asked. “I didn’t see her when I arrived. Is she in Winterfell?”

“Like as not,” Jon replied. “Her days take her many places—most recently she has been teaching my brother Rickon the Dothraki language.”

Brandon Tallhart blinked. “Dothraki?  Whatever for?”

“He wished to learn, apparently,” Jon shrugged.  “And who am I to deny its uses.  As far as I’ve been able to tell, the khalasar will remain in the North, and so being able to speak their tongue seems wise.”

Brandon Tallhart did not particularly look as though he liked that idea.  “It is they who should be learning our language,” he said at last. “They came here and plan to stay.”

“I imagine some of them will,” Jon shrugged.  “Daenerys says there are those among them who speak High Valyrian and some of the bastard tongues of the free cities.  They speak what they must learn to speak as they must learn it.  The same is true for the Thenns who have settled near Karhold.”

Brandon Tallhart hummed, though a frown still creased his face.  “She does…she does, I suppose, understand that we…are a people of our own traditions.  Southerners may have taken well to the Andals and the Valyrians, but the North is particular. Exceptional.”

Jon turned his mug between his hands.  “The North does what it must do to survive the winter,” he said, remembering something his father had once said, “And if that means that we must adapt to change, then so we must.”

He said it firmly, and that seemed to cow Brandon Tallhart, who drank again, and brought a smile back to his face.  “True enough,” he said.  “Better Dothraki horselords than Krakens,” he added darkly, remembering the Ironborn who had held him captive for so long.  He paused and his expression changed, lightening ever so slightly.  “I take it your sisters are well?”

“Quite,” Jon said, sensing where this was going.  “Sansa has gone south in my name to arrange a trade with the King of the Vale for some of his food stores, and Arya remains here.”  There it was, that flicker he’d thought he’d see in Brandon Tallhart’s eyes. 

“Your letter made mention only of your own marriage.  I take it your sisters are as of yet unpromised?”

“As of yet,” Jon said carefully.

“I am sure you are considering most carefully who they shall be wed to.”

“Most carefully,” Jon replied.  He hated the way the words felt on his tongue.  His sisters were not things to be sold.  And yet if it was the price of peace…how much more war could the North sustain?  How much more heartbreak could Arya bear? 

He imagined what would happen if he had declared to all the North that the Starks of Winterfell would wed as they saw fit, _if_ they saw fit, and they had better accept it the way that Daenerys had suggested.

He remembered what a knife in his heart felt like and didn’t much fancy repeating the experience.

 _It’s a compromise_.  _Why must everything be a compromise?_

He wondered what Ygritte would say.  Something about kneelers, he was sure, and how his lords had knelt to him.  _And what would happen if they stood again?_

He found he couldn’t remember her face, only that her hair was kissed by fire and that there had been a slight gap between her teeth.  She’d been pretty, he remembered thinking.  But that was another lifetime, another Jon.  _And if we die, we die.  All men must die, Jon Snow.  But first we’ll live._

He spent most of dinner watching Arya, who was seated at Brandon Tallhart’s side.  His little sister had always been the sort to entertain company well, and Brandon Tallhart was a lively conversationalist, it seemed. She made him laugh, and he made her laugh, and perhaps everything would be easy and she’d fall in love with him and then Jon wouldn’t have to command her to wed at all—she’d _want_ to. 

“It’s never that easy,” Bran said next to him, and Jon started.  Bran so rarely spoke that Jon had stopped expecting him to.  His blue eyes were trained on Arya too, but they seemed as though he was seeing something miles away. 

“What?” Jon asked him. But as so frequently happened, Bran did not elaborate and Jon sighed and set himself to finishing his plate.  He noticed, now, that Arya was chewing her lip every now and then.  _She only does that when she’s lying._

Bran hadn’t been seeing some far-off future, he’d seen the things that Jon had so wished not to see. He stabbed his fork into the potato on his plate, bitterly wishing that Bran could, for once in his life, be wrong.

“Did you fight beside him during the war?” he asked Arya later when the castle was going quiet.  He was standing in the doorway to Bran’s and Rickon’s room.  Arya had taken to sleeping in there with them now that Sansa was gone.  Whether it was cold or loneliness that had driven her there, he wasn’t sure.  Rickon was nowhere to be found, which meant he was likely with his Dothraki friends and Bran was lying there, watching them with his perpetually distant gaze.

“I fought alongside Beron, but not Brandon,” she said. 

“And what did you think of Brandon tonight?”

Arya rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not going to fall in love with someone over dinner, Jon,” she replied sternly.  “And the idea of marrying when we may not have enough food for the smallfolk seems like the wrong thing to focus on.”

Jon took a deep breath and said with the quiet voice of a king, “I can focus on both.” Arya flinched. “Though I do not expect you to fall in love over dinner.”  _Even if I might wish it.  I just want you to be happy.  Gods be good, why would any man_ want  _to be king? Had Robb ever felt this way?_

Arya had never been a romantic, though—that had always been Sansa.  Sansa had been in love with Joffrey from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. He hadn’t ever known Arya to be in love with anyone—except, perhaps, Nymeria.

“He’s a good enough man, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

Arya shrugged.  “He wants something out of me—my hand, I expect. Which means he is not showing me who he truly is.”

“It will be that way with every lord who comes to call,” Jon said, remembering Alys Karstark’s words when first she’d arrived at Castle Black.  “They’ll all be searching for your hand.”

“No—they think I search for theirs.  If they searched for mine, I wouldn’t have spent most of dinner hearing Brandon Tallhart speaking of his feats of heroism during the war.”

“You’d have spoken of yours?” Jon asked dryly.

“We’d have spoken at least of who we are, not what we are,” Arya said.  “I am more than my name.”

“I know,” Jon said quietly. “As I am more than mine.”

Arya looked at him, and her face softened.  She climbed from the bed and threw her arms around him, holding him tightly, and Jon squeezed her back. 

“I love you little sister,” he whispered.  “Never forget that.”

“And I you,” she said. “If I loved you any less, I’d have fled Winterfell by now over all of this.”

It wasn’t until later that night, curled up in his cold bed as he was for he’d not gone to Daenerys’ chambers, that he let himself wonder just how much she’d been japing when she’d said it.


	5. Chapter 5

Arya

She ran through the woods, her pack at her heels, her brothers at her side. The grey tried to run faster than the black, but couldn’t for the black was strong with the heart of his man. The silent white stayed by her side as the other two ran ahead on legs longer than any of her little grey cousins. The grey grew tired and slowed, and let out a soft, lonely howl.

 _He misses his man,_ she thought. _He does not run with the wolves anymore._

The black joined in the song, victorious, and soon the whole pack was singing too. She opened her own mouth to join them, and she sang loudest of all.

When the song ended, she sniffed the air. There was no game on her nose, but she could smell of men. They were dying, and she could smell them burning, their blood filling the air and the scent of joyous, sated hunger. She could join them. Freshly fed meat always tasted better.

 _No,_ came the firm voice of her woman in her mind. _No,_ again firmly.

She stretched and yawned. Onward, then. Deeper into the woods.

-

She awoke before Bran and Rickon, the songs of wolves still in her mind. _No game near Winterfell._ That was not good news at all. She’d not even smelled martins or hares through Nymeria’s nose. _There are too many wolves. They will start to die._

She shifted between her two brothers. Rickon had buried his face in the pillow and she could hear him snoring faintly. Bran lay flat on his back where she’d helped lay him down the night before, his breathing faint.

 _Summer was lonely,_ she thought sadly. _He hasn’t worn Summer’s skin in so long._ Even Jon had run with Ghost last night—they’d all been there except Bran.

She bent and kissed his forehead and he opened his eyes, confused.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“I miss you,” she whispered to him, not wanting to wake Rickon.

“I am here.”

“You’re not,” she said, her voice thick. “You’re drowning in it, Bran.”

“It’s the way of greenseeing. You become one with your visions, become a part of them. I am them, and they are me.”

“Except that’s not true,” she said forcefully. “You aren’t them. You’re _Bran_.”

“It’s the way of the gods.”

“I had a god try to become me, too,” she said. She’d dreaded losing her face forever, had had to sneak it back out of the hall with great care. How would Jon know it was her if she didn’t have her face? He’d think she’d stolen Needle—it wouldn’t be enough. She needed her face too, she wouldn’t let Him of Many Faces keep it. “He couldn’t take me—I wouldn’t let him. Bran,” she implored, taking his hand, and an odd look crossed Bran’s face, as though he was aware of something that hurt someone very far away, but couldn’t feel it himself.

He licked his lips, and closed his eyes again, and Arya sat there for a long while, holding his hand before climbing from the bed and going back to her bedchamber and getting dressed.

She found Jon sitting with Brandon Tallhart at the high table, along with a man that Arya didn’t recognize, but whose fine furs gave him away for someone important. _Blast,_ Arya thought to herself before pulling on the sort of ladylike smile she thought would make Septa Mordane nod approvingly and approached the table.

“Princess,” the stranger said before being introduced. He stood, and bowed and kissed her hand.

“Larence Hornwood,” Jon said by way of introduction. “The late lord Halys’ legitimized son.” Arya remembered the legitimzation but Lord Larence looked different now than he had during the war. He had a beard now, and seemed taller, though that was silly for he had already been a man grown. Perhaps it was the furs that made him look grander than the starving scrap of a boy he had been when she’d last seen him.

“A pleasure to see you once again, my lord,” Arya said and she sat down next to Daenerys, who handed her a basket of rolls. She broke one in half and ate it. “I trust the journey was not hard?”

“Harder than I should have liked,” Lord Larence said graciously.

“I imagine it was the same from Torrhen’s Square,” said Lord Brandon, nodding energetically. _Gods be good,_ Arya thought as she picked up a bit of bacon. “But no journey is too far to celebrate our good king’s impending marriage,” he inclined his head to Daenerys, who smiled but said nothing.

“I wish I could say that were the only matter I rode for,” Lord Larence said seriously, and, Arya noted, with a slight smirk in Lord Brandon’s direction. _If they have a pissing contest over me at this table I will murder Jon_ , Arya thought bitterly. But Lord Larence’s face grew somber.

“The stores at Hornwood are empty,” he said.

“Fully empty?” Jon asked.

Hornwood looked at him sadly. “Completely. Some of my smallfolk have gone down to White Harbor. Lady Donella was ever a good lady to them, and their hope is that Lord Wyman will accept them in her name. The bastard of Bolton saw that our stores were never filled, and my smallfolk have been dying since the onset of winter. They’ve finally eaten their way through even the useful animals we have. There is nothing. I rode ahead of a column of them who make for the Winter Town,” he added. “Hornwood is empty of everything.”

“Is there no game in the wood?” Jon asked astonished.

“Not near enough the castle to make a difference. Perhaps deeper into the wood, but deeper into the wood is too far to expect hunters to travel for what little game they can find.”

Jon glanced at Arya who closed her eyes for a moment and slipped into her wolf’s skin. Nymeria was asleep—a night wolf for true—but Arya put the woods to the east in her mind and knew it would not be long before she and her pack began to run for it. _I hope Summer at least will go with her_ , Arya thought sadly as she pulled back in. She’d hated how lonely Bran’s wolf had become.

When she opened her eyes again, they were talking details. Some two thousand smallfolk were on their way, along with near a thousand fighting men. Those who were falling behind were left behind, he told the king, for the road was hard, but harder still if they stopped in the middle of it. “I thought it might be cruel,” Larence added, looking forlorn, “But then again I remember what the march did to Stannis Baratheon’s men.”

Daenerys Targaryen shifted next to Arya. “And you give no warning of this? Are there no ravens or riders in Hornwood?” she asked.

“Without flesh, even ravens starve, my lady,” Larence said, not unkindly.

Arya joined Jon and Daenerys after breakfast, standing on the walkway over the courtyard. Daenerys was wearing her silver lion skin again, as she was wont to do when out of doors. Arya leaned over the railing, looking down, watching as Grey Worm drilled with Rickon.

“Damn,” Jon murmured at last, breaking the silence. “Damn, damn, damn. How many other houses do you think will turn to us? Too many men went south with Robb during the harvest.”

“We can’t turn them away,” Daenerys said at once, and Arya nodded at her, approvingly. “They’re your people.”

“I wasn’t implying that we would,” Jon said, looking peeved. “But how long before those whom the ironborn attacked when Balon Greyjoy decided to try and harry the coasts begin to question whether House Stark has ever done anything for them? How long before...” he paused, thinking. “It gets worse by the day,” he said. “And Winterfell’s stores won’t last long. I should take out a loan from the Iron Bank, and see what food there is across the sea.”

“Not the Iron Bank,” Arya said. “Go at least to Pentos, or—”

“I doubt very much that Pentos would accept our plea for a loan, after what I did to Magister Illyrio,” Daenerys said quietly. Arya did not know who Magister Illyrio was, but given that Daenerys had had her dragons burn the men who betrayed her, she could suspect the nature of the thing. “ _She should have let them all live,_ ” she remembered Jon saying. “ _That is no way to die._ ”

“ _No way is a way to die,_ ” Arya had replied softly. She had little stomach for death these days, except when she was forced to. She’d drunk too deeply of that cup and wished never to again.

“Not the Iron Bank,” she said again. “That we have so much debt to them already concerns me.”

“Why?” Daenerys asked and Arya inhaled slowly.

“I’d prefer keep any connection there is to Braavos limited. I should think you would as well,” she added. “They played a hand in trying to kill your dragons.”

“But it wasn’t they who succeeded,” Daenerys said.

“No,” she agreed. _What can I tell them?_ That was always the trouble. What could she tell about those who wore many faces? What could she tell them about her mother? _They’d hate me if they knew._

_Jon had little stomach for Daenerys burning men alive._

That, she suspected, was different from killing her own mother.

“I learned many things in Braavos,” she said, “And while the city is a good place, with good people, I would still not tie the north to parts of it if can be helped. There is darkness there.”

“There’s darkness everywhere,” Jon said. “It’s gold I need.”

“Then go to Pentos, or Myr.”

“With what time? I don’t even know how long it will take Sansa to reach Gulltown, and Myr is much farther away.”

“What of Tyrion Lannister, then? You said that you wrote to him. If he’s our friend, then surely he can aid us with Lannister gold.”

“If we sail to Braavos, we can perhaps buy food from the city before we even have to leave. We can establish our loan and purchase food in one go.”

Arya took a deep breath. “I will not go.”

“You won’t?” Jon looked startled.

“I will not.”

“You would defy your king.”

“In many things and in this,” she said. “I cannot serve you or the north if you do not trust my judgment.”

“You’ve given me no reason to understand your judgment,” Jon pointed out quietly.

“Some words are best left unsaid,” Arya said.

“Arya—what secret is so great you would keep it from me? Surely you know that I would not—”

“I will not go, Your Grace.”

It was the _Your Grace_ that did it, she could see it in his eyes. _He does not like commanding me. He may hate that I will not tell him, but he will not bring them from my lips with a command._ That was something, at least.

Jon looked so tired. She hated that he did, hated that he was. He turned back to look out over Winterfell. “I shall write again to Tyrion,” he said at last. “And we shall wait for Sansa. But gods be good, it may already be too late.”

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa

When White Harbor rose before them on the horizon, Sansa nearly wept with relief. The road had been hard—far harder than she’d expected—and all she could think was that soon they should be in the Wolf’s Den and she would have a hot bath drawn for her and be able to sleep in a soft bed again.

And sure enough, when they reached the castle gates, Lord Wyman’s granddaughters came out to greet them both. “Princess Sansa!” Lady Wynafryd said, embracing Sansa as a sister might. “We had word from the king that we might expect you soon. How awful to have had to travel the roads in such conditions, but with the White Knife frozen there can have been no other way, I suppose.”

“Not if we wished haste, and we had need of it,” Sansa replied, smiling at Lord Wyman’s elder granddaughter. She had only ever met Wynafryd Manderly once before, but had taken to her well then and she was pleased to see that she seemed to sit in the other woman’s fond memory as well. “We sail for Gulltown as soon as we can find a ship.”

“Yes, the king indicated we should find a ship for you if we could,” Wynafryd said. “My grandfather has had his men searching for a captain who’ll take you there directly, rather than bringing you first across the sea. Most would go first to Braavos, and are loath to skip it, since there is far more trade across the sea than in Gulltown at present. But I’m sure my lord grandfather will tell all that needs be told on the matter, and I’m sure you are weary from the road. We shall have baths drawn for you and your companion at once.” Wynafryd nodded to Brienne, who bowed slightly as well.

Sansa had not felt so good as she felt sinking into the bathtub in a room with fine tapestries of mermaids and flowers. The heat soothed her aching legs—how she _hated_ riding, and riding in the snow was far worse than riding dusty hot roads—and noted where before the flesh of her thighs had been soft, now it had hardened with muscles that she’d never had there before. She’d seen such muscles on Arya before, and was intrigued to see them on herself. _Did my mother have these muscles, when she rode alongside Robb?_

She dressed in a fine set of fur-lined velvets and went down to the Wolf’s Den for dinner with Lord Wyman and his family.

“Princess,” Lord Wyman said heartily, “When you did not arrive swiftly, we feared the worst from the road. You wouldn’t be the first to freeze to death at night. But I see that Ser Brienne has kept you in tact.”

“Ever the loyal protector,” Sansa said, inclining her head. Brienne was seated at the end of the table, near Lady Wylla and Lord Wylis.

“And what is taking you to Gulltown?” Lord Wyman asked her, snapping his fingers. Large trays of fish were brought forward, greasy and plump, and a serving man set one in front of her.

“From Gulltown to the Bloody Gate,” Sansa replied. “I must treat with the King of the Vale.”

“Is that so?” Lord Wyman asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’d heard you were betrothed to him.”

“I was, though I am not, nor shall I be,” Sansa said firmly, and Lord Wyman’s face softened at once. “No, Jon would have gone except he is needed here in the North. I am…familiar with the Vale, and so he entrusted me to go in his stead.”

“And what is it that our good King in the North needs from King Harrold Arryn?”

Sansa glanced at the fish on her plate, then at Lord Manderly. “Why my lord, surely you’ve noticed that it is winter. How much food have you set aside for your smallfolk? Or is there enough in the ocean for everyone?”

Lord Manderly raised his eyebrows, and she saw his beady eyes harden ever so slightly. “Winter is upon us indeed. My smallfolk are not so fat as me, nor would I say they starve. We are able to break through the ices outside the port and there are fish yet.”

“So Jon’s reports that there are fewer fish are false?”

“There are always fewer fish in winter,” Lord Wyman said. “But there are still fish.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” Sansa said, taking a bite of her fish. It was, beneath the butter and spices, completely flavorless. “I sail for Gulltown in hopes that I might convinced King Harrold to sell some of the grain stores that Lord Baelish ensured would be set aside for a long winter in the Vale. The stores in Winterfell are not so flush as they should be, and Jon fears not enough of the harvest was set aside before the war, with so many men fighting aside Robb.”

“He is a thoughtful king,” Lord Wyman said, raising his glass of wine. “To be so concerned.”

“A good king, I should think, would concern himself with this at minimum,” Sansa said, raising her glass as well. When she drank, she drank only lightly. She had little taste for wine these days—especially the Arbor Gold that Lord Wyman served that night, and which she remembered Lord Baelish saying paired so well with fish. She could still see the way the blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth as his breath rattled and choked in his chest. _It was the only way_ , she told herself. _He saw your father murdered._

_He loved me like his daughter._

“My Lord,” Ser Brienne asked, and they turned their attention down the table to her. “Who were the people outside your gates?”

“They come from Hornwood,” Lord Wyman said, “Starving,” he added, inclining his head towards Sansa. “The late lady of Hornwood was a cousin of mine, and she was well beloved before the Bolton bastard made her eat her own fingers. The bastard left them with no winter stores at all, and so here they are, having eaten through what they had squirreled away. My men say some went with their Lord Larence to Winterfell to beg shelter of the king. The rest are here.”

“Where they shall have all the fish in the sea,” Sansa added and Lord Wyman gave her a look.

“Where they shall have what we can provide as we can provide,” he said simply. “I may have food for the people of this city, but I’m not so foolish as to give it all away to beggers—no matter how…pitiable the circumstance. Winter is here, and I’d see my people survive it.”

Sansa hid her own dismay behind a bite of fish. The flavoring, she thought, was not to her taste at all. But food was food and she’d best eat it, for she doubted very much that any good would come letting it go to waste. And besides, she’d been so hungry on the road.

“You think me miserly?” Lord Manderly asked her.

“I think winter is hard,” Sansa said sadly. “In so many ways. And it is not always possible to fix it.”

“Just so,” Lord Manderly replied. He hoisted a smile on his face. “But come, tell me of our good king and his bride to be. When will the wedding be?”

Sansa pulled a gracious smile onto her face as well. Something about the way he was speaking sat ill with her. _He sizes me up,_ she thought. _Which means he must not be allowed to see me._ Was that not always what Lord Petyr had suggested? She knew Lord Wyman to be wily. “But you must know more than me, for surely Jon told you in his letter,” she said lightly. “I had only heard at year’s end, but he wrote after I had left Winterfell, I am to understand.”

“He did,” agreed Lord Wyman. “He wrote of his own nuptuals, and that we must prepare for a long, hard winter. I don’t suppose he made mention of my other…thoughts in the letter I wrote him before?”

 _No, my lord, he left me ignorant,_ Sansa thought, and found herself glad of that, for she could smile at him benignly and say, “I am afraid not. It must have…slipped his mind.”

Lord Wyman settled in his seat and glanced at his son. “Perhaps,” he said, “Though our king is a canny man. I am quite sure he is thinking most carefully of it.”

“And what is this it you have yet to tell me, my lord?” Sansa asked, letting laughter tinkle from her lips.

“More on the matter of marriage,” sighed Lord Wyman heavily. “I had wondered if he might think of promising Rickon to my Wylla. Or if he had thoughts on who you and your sister Arya were to wed. Peace and spring should mean marriage and children for everyone, after all. Especially after war. Time to rebuild, to let families…grow.”

 _So you’re one of the ones who put this blasted idea in Jon’s head,_ Sansa thought. No wonder Jon had not warned her of it. Instead, she smiled and shook her head. “I’m sure the last thing on my brother’s mind is who I shall marry, especially with me off to treat with King Harrold. What’s the point of arranging a marriage pact if we all starve before winter is out?”

Lord Wyman forced a laugh but did not seem to appreciate her answer. That didn’t please her. _He’ll put more pressure on Jon. I should have said that Jon was considering all options. That was the truth. The best lies have a grain of the truth._

When she was back in her chambers for the night, with a promise that she’d be on a ship for Gulltown on the morrow, she clutched a pillow to her chest and went and sat by the window, staring out at the city walls for a long while.

 _This is why I go_ , she thought with fresh purpose. _Because of the people that Lord Wyman can’t feed, and everyone else like them. I was silly to think it was only about Jon and Harry and Daenerys and everything else._

She felt ashamed. She was better than that, she told herself. Wasn’t she?

“My Lady?”

She had not heard Brienne knock and turned to see her standing with her head around the doorway.

Sansa gestured her inside and Brienne closed the door behind her.

“I had wanted to ask if there was anything you needed done before we took to the sea,” Brienne said. “Letters, or errands?”

“You’re not my page, Ser,” Sansa said, “Though I thank you the consideration.”

Brienne was watching her. “Is aught amiss, my lady?”

“Only the things that ever are,” she said. The response made Brienne frown, and she elaborated. “I find myself at odds with who I wish to be, sometimes. More out of habit, I imagine, than anything else.”

“What do you mean?”

Sansa paused. Would Brienne understand? Could anyone?

She remembered their conversation on the road, remembered the way that Brienne’s face had shone when Sansa had said that surely, _surely_ her father was proud of her. There had been such a fine glow to her eyes. If anyone in the world could understand, it was Brienne. And hard as it was for Sansa to trust anyone, she trusted this knight that had served her mother so leally, and who had never once failed her.

“I seek ever to be my father’s daughter,” she said at last, “and my mother’s. And I do not lose sight of that desire. But I spent a good deal of time with those who opposed them in more than just morality and sometimes find I was too shaped by it. So how do I undo what I was made? How do I become what I wish to be?”

Brienne frowned. “You are good, my lady. And gracious, and kind. You have proven so time and time again.”

Sansa’s lips twisted in what she wished were a smile, but found there was little gladness in the expression. _I’ll know no joy while I still feel his hand in my movements, and I always shall, I think._ It broke her heart, somehow, that Brienne still determinedly saw only the good in her. She wished she could be the woman Brienne believed in. Brienne deserved that. “I’m glad I seem to be at least,” she sighed and turned back to the window. _How many will die if I fail?_

She felt such a weight from those words—and hated all the more that she sensed it was not Ned Stark’s honor, nor Catelyn Stark’s strength that would bring her to success, but the twisting wit of the man who’d had her name him father.


	6. Chapter 6

Daenerys

Larence Hornwood’s people arrived three days after he did, a column of trudging smallfolk that seemed to go on forever. Daenerys watched them arrive from the battlements, standing by Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui.

“There are so few of them,” she whispered to no one in particular. She hadn’t known what she was expecting. Lord Hornwood had said that there were several thousand when he’d set out from Hornwood, and that some had not survived the road. Daenerys’ heart broke, thinking of those who had starved or frozen on their way to Winterfell.

“No horses,” Jhiqui pointed out in Dothraki.

It wasn’t entirely true—some of Lord Hornwood’s strongmen rode atop some horses that looked closer to death than anything else. Even at a distance, Dany could tell that the horses were thin, weak, tired, and likely would not last long. “Northern smallfolk don’t always have horses,” she replied in Dothraki. She knew that Jhiqui knew this—knew that all of her khalasar knew it. “ _A man who cannot ride isn’t a man_ ,” she remembered Goharo laughing over a mug of mead, and the Dothraki had joined in. “ _There are few men here._ ”

Few, but too many. _More mouths to feed_. And with every person who arrived, the faster their stores would deplete. She knew that Jon dwelled on it too, shutting himself away with Missandei and the maester for hours on end, going over what few records had survived the fire of Winterfell, trying to piece together how much they needed in comparison to how much they had.

He always came back from those meetings frustrated, and she could not blame him. When death was only a matter of time…

She turned away from the battlements and found the stairs down into the courtyard. But to the surprise of Irri, Jhiqui, and Missandei, she did not make her way to the main keep, but rather to the gates of Winterfell.

“Khaleesi,” Irri began. “Where are you going?”

“I would walk among them,” she said. “I would see their faces.”

The Dothraki girls looked at one another, then followed.

“My queen,” Missandei murmured, “we should take a guard with us,” but Daenerys brushed her off. She was not afraid of Jon’s starving smallfolk, no more than she was afraid of the Free Folk. _What can they do to me that starvation won’t one way or another?_

They reached the edge of the winter town and found the first of them already making camp. To her surprise, she found Arya Stark already speaking to a group of them.

“The road is hard,” one was saying. “There was no pace we could all keep and live—too fast and the old and sick would fall behind. Too slow, and the rest of us would starve.” The man looked miserable.

“And there was no meat to be had on the road? No hares or game?” Arya was asking.

“None, my lady,” the man replied before correcting himself, apologetically. “Princess.”

Arya was giving him an unfathomable look, but turned when one of the men nudged one of his neighbors pointed to Daenerys.

“How many died along your way?” Daenerys asked.

“I couldn’t say,” the man said edgily. He glanced between Arya and Daenerys.

“Hundreds at least,” Arya said to Daenerys after they’d bade the men well in setting up their tents. “That’s what Lord Hornwood estimates.”

“I’m surprised he is not here,” Daenerys said.

“Are you?” Arya asked and there was something odd in her voice. Daenerys frowned, and Arya took a step towards her, looking very, very somber. Irri, Jhiqui, and Missandei leaned closer to hear her. “More would have died had they not eaten their dead.”

Daenerys felt all the air in her body rush out through her mouth. She felt dizzy. “You’re sure?” she asked.

“I think it’s why Lord Larence rode ahead. He would not stop them but could not face it.” Her voice was hard too, and she looked around. “Do you speak Braavosi?”

Daenerys remembered sunshine, and a house with a red door, and a lemon tree. “Not well,” she confessed. “I did when I was a girl, but I have since lost it.”

“My High Valyrian isn’t as good, but I’ll try,” Arya said and continued in the language—oddly with a Braavosi accent. “I do not think Jon knows yet, but it can’t be far from his mind. There are tales from the Long Night of men who were so hungry that they ate other men. It comes with siege, or starvation.”

“I know,” Daenerys responded. She remembered the last days of the siege of Meereen, when she’d executed men she’d found who had resorted to it.

“Desperation,” Arya continued.

“And Lord Hornwood allowed it?” Daenerys was angry. Too angry. _Careful_ , she thought to herself. _You must keep your voice down. These are his men. They will know what you speak of._

Arya’s eyes were dark, and Daenerys saw anger there as well, but she did not reply.

They walked together through the Hornwood men. Daenerys saw so many thin faces, children with eyes that seemed too big for the rest of their faces, clinging to their mothers’ legs. She saw few babies, and fewer elderly people. _Did they eat the babies? Tender tasty flesh?_

She felt ill, and remembered Ser Jorah’s words from so many years before. _The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends._ Her old bear had sold poachers to slavers. Had his smallfolk starved in winter? Would he have let them eat themselves?

Behind her, she heard Irri begin to cry, and she turned to her friend. “I do not like it here,” Irri was weeping in Dothraki. “Khaleesi, it is so cold and people starve and eat one another. The frozen water is more poisonous than the poison water.”

Daenerys wished she knew what to say to that. _If my dragons were alive, they’d melt the snow and heat the ground,_ she thought. But her dragons weren’t alive, and even if they were, there was not enough sun in the sky to harvest, and it would snow again the next day and cover up the cleared earth.

How bleak winter was. How hopeless, and colder and harsher in so many ways than Meereen ever had been. _And it is my place now. I must know it. I must rule it alongside Jon. I will be the sort of queen that Ser Jorah would have served gladly here._

And yet the north seemed too hard even for its lords. What would it do to her? Bleed her dry? Perhaps that was why she was so plagued by dreams sent her way by the Old Gods.

Hours later, when the cold was too much and her heart had born more than she thought any heart should have to, the five of them returned to the castle. They exchanged no words—they did not have to. They all had seen what the other had seen.

She went to find Jon, seated in the great hall with Lord Hornwood and Lord Tallhart. They all looked very serious. She didn’t notice until she sat down that Arya had followed her. _She is so quiet,_ Daenerys thought.

Arya did not sit, but stood at the edge of the table, her arms crossed and her long face sullen. “Your people eat themselves, my lord,” she said, her voice as hard as steel, before Daenerys could open her mouth. She had never heard a silence like the silence that followed Arya’s words.

Lord Larence’s face twisted in pain and he looked away from Arya, but found equally hard eyes in the king he turned to.

“Were you a less honest man, you’d have lied,” he said. “You’d have called my sister false, would have denied it. I suppose it is a good thing, that you are an honest man.”

“Your people aren’t starving yet, your grace,” Larence Hornwood said. “Winterfell has stores still, and the winter town as well. You have livestock and horses—things you _can_ eat. Your song may yet change when your people have no more food.”

His words weren’t angry—they were weary. Daenerys found she had little sympathy for them.

“They are under your protection,” she said. “All of them. The old and the young alike.”

“Which is why I bring them to Winterfell, where some may survive the winter,” he responded.

“But can they survive each other? There is no justice in your rule if you do not enforce the most basic law: that a man is not to eat his fellow man,” Arya said. Her hand, Daenerys noted, was resting not quite lazily on her sword.

“And you’ve not lived through even an easy winter. The last winter was before you were even a babe at your mother’s breast,” Lord Larence retorted heatedly. “Last winter, there was peace, and full granaries, and no bastard of Bolton who raped my father’s lady wife and left her to eat her own fingers.”

Jon raised a hand and he looked at Lord Larence with a cool eye. “Stannis Baratheon burned the men he found who tried to cannibalize in his army,” he said. “My father would have had your head for allowing it.” Lord Larence swallowed.

“Then take my head,” he said at last. “Take it. I brought my people to you—their lives are in your hands now, and you’ll see soon enough what winter does to people when there’s no food to be had. It sickens me as much as it sickens you, but for all of them to die sickens me as well. Starvation leaves no good in its wake.”

Jon looked at Daenerys and she could see him thinking quickly. _He’s going to let him live,_ Daenerys thought at once. _He is going to._ She felt angry at the prospect of it. She watched Jon see her anger, and he sighed and turned away. He did not look at his sister either. “Any man found eating the flesh of another man will be executed,” he said and there was such finality in his voice that it almost gave Daenerys pause. “See to it that your people know that, and I’ll see to mine.”

“I’ll see it done, your grace,” Lord Larence said.

“You’re letting him live?” Arya hissed at Jon when Lords Hornwood and Tallhart had left.

“Had he lied about it I wouldn’t have,” Jon said.

“So lying’s a greater evil than cannibalism? I have lied for much of my life—you should take my head?”

“Arya,” Jon said impatiently, “How long will it be before I have to take the heads of each of my lords bannermen for allowing it? Men starve in winter. We’ll all be starving soon enough.”

“And then you shall be the cannibal king of the north?”

Jon looked truly angry then. “I’d die before I ate the flesh of another man.”

Arya looked chagrinned.

“You risk other lords allowing it as well if you do not punish him,” Daenerys said at last. “How many will allow it because they see he goes unpunished?”

“This will be the only time I allow such a thing,” he said firmly. “Lord Larence is young, and new to his title. If he betrays my word again, I will take his head myself. His allowing it came in absence of my rule. I now have given him my law. Any time it happens in future it shall be on his hands—not on mine.”

“Some rules should not need to be said by a king,” Daenerys said.

“And yet that does not stop evils in the world from occurring from that lack of assumption. How long has there been slavery in Slaver’s Bay? How many men commit murder, or rape?” He paused and looked at both of them. “I shall send more ravens out to my lords bannermen, that they can never claim ignorance again, and that they shall know the justice of Winterfell for it henceforth. Will that do?”

He looked between them, a stubborn look on his face. Arya sat down at last, and said no more.

Later, when Jon came to her room before bed, he said, “You think me too gentle.”

“Winters are hard, as you’re fond of saying,” she replied. “You must be hard too. What Lord Hornwood allowed should mean his life.”

“It will if it happens again,” Jon repeated stubbornly. “I have made sure he knows that. I need him, though. Gods know I need him.”

Daenerys raised a brow at him. “Oh?”

“When men starve, they fight. There will be more blood spilled this winter if we aren’t careful, and I’d sooner have as many of my lords on my side as I can. He doesn’t have many fighting men, but he has enough to bolster our own.”

“If it comes to war, you have my Dothraki and my Unsullied,” Daenerys said. She had not thought of war—not least a war amongst Jon’s bannermen. But even as she said the words, fear crept into her heart. _I do not like it here, Khaleesi,_ Irri, loyal Irri, had said. How long before her Khalasar fled back across the sea forever? Would they stay to live alongside cannibal barbarians? _What is a dragon queen with no dragons, a khaleesi with no khalasar?_ But it hadn’t come to that yet.

“Who my northmen will revile as foreigners and will weaken my victory as such,” Jon said. Daenerys shook the other thought from her mind, refusing to let her fear rule her and raising her eyebrows even higher. “I know that is not the case,” Jon added quickly. “But the north is cold and unchanging. Already I know—I _know_ —they whisper of how I gave the Gift to the Free Folk. I cannot rule without their support. If Lord Hornwood sees me as just and forgiving, that’s one more lord I do not have to worry about placating—and he is young and new to his title, and never imagined inheriting when he was young, so it’s an easier task. What if it is Lord Manderly I must contend with next? The north cannot be ruled unilaterally. They follow men they respect.”

“You saved their lives from the Others,” Daenerys said.

“But I cannot save them from themselves when there’s no food—and they’ll see that soon enough, and if I’m not careful I’ll end up with another knife in my heart.”

* * *

* * *

 

Gendry

Hliziffo nearly weapt when Gendry handed him the arakh, freshly forged and sharp enough to slice through silk without disturbing the fabric. He’d never seen a Dothraki man look so emotional, and it brought a smile to his face when Hliziffo tested the weight and balance of the weapon. It pleased him even more to see how impressed he was at the sharpness of the blade.

“I did not think you would do so good,” Hliziffo said as he turned the arakh in his hands. “Westerosi with steel dresses could not understand.”

Gendry smiled. “It proved a challenge, but I’m pleased with the results, and am glad you are as well.”

“Very pleased,” Hliziffo said. He could not take his eyes from the weapon for long. “Perhaps this place is not so cursed.”

“Cursed?” Gendry would have laughed, except the Dothraki had faced the wights and Others quite as much as he had done. “We fought the curse off.”

But Hliziffo shook his head. “No, no. The frozen rain kills, and men eat men. It is a savage place, but perhaps there is hope.”

He threw his head back and laughed at Gendry’s expression, then waved and went off through the courtyard.

“He liked it, then?” Marya asked. She was sharpening the edge of a sword, her foot working the pedal of the whetstone as sparks danced along the metal edge.

“He was very happy with it, yes,” Gendry said. “I’d say I could bring the mold back to your forge, but I’d be willing to bet that there’ll be more Dothraki after me with arakhs soon enough.”

“Show me how you do it, next time,” Marya said. “If there’s enough of them, it seems like something worth knowing.”

Gendry nodded and sat down on his workbench, looking around.

“You’re like my Nora when she’s got a secret she doesn’t want to share,” Marya said, and Gendry looked at her, startled. She laughed. “Not used to a mother’s attention, I see. I suppose most men aren’t, and you’d have small enough reason to. I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I’ve no pennies.”

“Something he said…about men eating men here.”

Marya went still, and her face somber. “Have they not been talking about it in the castle?”

“Talking about what?”

She grimaced. “The king commanded that any man found eating another be put to death. Word was put out among the Hornwood folk a few days ago and there’ve been….fights amongst them. Apprently some of them _did_ eat the ones who died on the road.”

Gendry’s eyes widened in horror. _No,_ he thought, his mind too blank to think of anything else.

He got up and took a sword from the flames, set it down on the anvil between him and Marya and began to hit it. His strokes were hard, and loud, and when he brought the sword back to the heat, he saw Marya watching him.

“This is your first winter.” she said to him.

“I’ve lived through winter,” Gendry grunted. “I was born before the long summer.”

“Aye, but in the south. This is your first winter. Your first _real_ winter. And what a winter it is.”

“Do men often eat men in the north?” he grunted stubbornly. He could imagine Arya as he’d first met her, the stubborn set to her jaw, the way that she refused to hear any ill of anything about her home. He remembered her giving water to Robb’s men before they died, too. He remembered mercy in face of justice. What mercy could there be for men who ate men?

Marya sighed. “No,” she said, “They don’t. But there have always been…stories of hard winters where men do what men ordinarily wouldn’t.”

“Like eating other men.”

“I suppose,” Marya said. “And this is a harder winter than any I’ve lived through.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” Gendry asked sharply.

“You are a sharp boy, aren’t you.”

“I’m not a boy,” Gendry grunted.

“All men are boys sometimes,” she replied. “If you’d had a mother you’d know that.”

“Well,” Gendry said dryly, “I don’t have a mother. And I don’t need one.”

“Everyone needs a mother,” Marya replied.

“And I don’t need you to be my mother,” Gendry continued as though he had not heard her.

“Of course you don’t,” she said, and Gendry rolled his eyes.

Gendry took the sword out of the flame and brought it back to the anvil. “I’d have thought,” he said as he began to beat it, “that you’d have enough on your plate without worrying after me too. What with your girls, and everything that’s going on.”

“You don’t choose what you care about, and who you care for, and how,” Marya shrugged coming and standing over him, watching the sparks that flew from the heated metal. “There’s room enough in my heart for one overgrown boy of a blacksmith.”

Gendry looked up at her. “I’m a man grown,” he said quietly, and as he did he realized just how much a petulant boy he sounded. “Not some overgrown child. I’ve lived through war and hell.” Marya didn’t reply and Gendry sensed she was just placating him. “What?”

“War and pain and surviving aren’t what make a man, no matter what other men will tell you,” she said. “Your heart is.”

“And you don’t think I’ve got a man’s heart?”

“Do you know how to share it with anyone? Not as a lover—as a friend. Someone who you can tell your darkest fears to?”

Gendry’s mind flew at once to Arya, but he’d never say that to Marya. Gods, their names sounded the same. He hadn’t noticed that before.

“Boys hide their feelings when they think that’s what makes a man,” Marya said quietly. “Men know who and how to share. That’s why you’re an overgrown boy of a man, Gendry. If you’d had a mother, you might have known that.”

“My mother gave me away, and drank too much to care about me,” Gendry told Marya. He didn’t think he’d ever told anyone that—not even Arya. “She used to curse that she’d whelped me, called me more trouble than I was worth and gave me to Tobho Mott the moment she suspected I’d be big enough to swing a hammer.”

Marya looked at Gendry and he saw her eyes harden. “She wasn’t a good mother,” Marya said calmly, and a shiver went up Gendry’s spine. “You turned out better than you should have, given that.”

“Contrary bastard that I am,” Gendry muttered. He bent his head down over the steel and made it sing. He made it sing for a good long while, and only stopped when a flicker of movement caught in the corner of his eye and he looked up to see a little girl standing there. He paused.

“You looking for something?” he asked her, gruffly. His throat was thick, he realized.

“Maggy,” Marya said sharply, crossing the forge. _Her daughter._ “What are you doing here?”

Looking at the girl more closely, he could see something of Marya in her face. Certainly the color of her hair was the same, if Marya’s had a little more grey to it. She was also much scrawnier than her mother, but that was to be expected of a child. Except that there was something a little too thin. _Men are eating themselves, and children are starving._ Was this what the Starks meant when they warned that winter was coming?

“It was cold,” Maggy said.

“Did you let the fire go out in the forge?”

Maggy bit her lip, looking like Arya had when she was a girl. Marya sighed and glanced at Gendry. “I’d best be off. I can finish this next time,” she said, gesturing towards the sword that was only halfway to sharpened.

Gendry nodded to her, and she and her daughter departed.

He put the sword back in the flames and went to stand by the fire. He looked into it, thinking more than saying the words to the prayer that Thoros had taught him long before. _Is there nothing good in this world, Lord? Why do you let people starve? Why do you let them eat themselves?_

He’d known what it was to be hungry—so hungry that he ate bugs off the ground. He’d never once thought about killing Hot Pie or Arya to eat them, though he _had_ considered abandoning his fat friend and Lommy and the crying girl they’d called Weasel because they’d been so bleeding slow. Maybe he hadn’t considered it because he’d known they _could_ find other food. Would things be different if he knew there was no other food to have?

He tried to imagine eating a part of someone and nearly retched.

He turned away from the fire and almost jumped out of his skin. Arya was standing there, halfway into the forge.

“I’m in no mood to have you beat me at swords again today,” he said.

“Me neither,” she said quietly. He searched her grey eyes for just a moment.

“You know about the Hornwood men?”

“Larence Hornwood put six of them to death today—six men who confessed to it. There were undoubtedly more who did it too, but those were the ones he could find.”

“It’s vile,” Gendry whispered. “Is that something that happens in a northern winter?”

Arya shook her head. “Rickon’s particularly infuriated. He spent _years_ on Skagos, and everyone calls _them_ cannibals, but he says they never actually did it. Maybe he was there during autumn, but it’s a fine thing to think we’re better than the Skaggs when they don’t eat their own—we just say they do.”

“And you? Are you particularly infuriated?”

And there it was, a look he knew, had known for years, a look of revolted hatred, the look of a wounded dog. “Lannister bannermen burned the riverlands, raping and pillaging,” she said. “But for all the torture and the death, they never once ate the dead. Jon hopes that his word will be the end of it, but…”

“But you don’t think it will be?”

“I don’t even think _he_ thinks it will be,” she said sadly. “That’s the worst part of it. Winters are hard, we know that, have always known it. But this… there hasn’t been a winter like this in thousands of years, and the songs from the Long Night aren’t exactly…”

Her voice trailed away and she sat down on one of the workbenches, chewing her lip, thinking. “Bran used to love those songs,” she said at last. “He’d always have Old Nan tell scary stories to him when he was a boy. Stories about the Long Night, and a winter that never ended. And now…”

“Now we’re living it,” Gendry said quietly.

“And I wish we weren’t.”

Gendry came and sat down next to her and she leaned her head against his shoulder. His skin prickled, and he felt a shiver cross him, though the forge was hot.

“The old Kings of Winter used to ride south in hard winters,” Arya said after a moment. “They’d pillage the riverlands, and sometimes ride as far south as the Reach. _Winter is coming_ , was a threat, not just…not just house words, I suppose. A fact of nature.” She shifted, her head no longer leaning against him. Gendry found himself wishing it were. “But the Neck’s broken, so we can’t ride out, and even if we did, the riverlands knew enough war and have no food themselves, not to mention that Lord Edmure is my mother’s brother. The Reach is far, but was burned by the Greyjoys and even so…I’m tired of warring. I’m tired of fighting. But if we’re starving…” her voice faded away and when Gendry looked at her, her eyes were far away.

“I miss my father,” she said at last, so quietly he thought he missed it. She was looking down at her hands now, which were twisted together. Gendry reached out and took one of them and squeezed it. Arya squeezed it back.


	7. Chapter 7

Brienne

Brienne had sailed several times before in her life, but never before in winds like this. If the howling of the winds across the frozen plains around Winterfell had sounded like the howling of wolves, the winds that carried the Maid Margaery first east and then south were the howling of a sea monster at least the size of one of Daenerys’ dragons, if not larger. The third night at sea, there was a tremendous storm that shook the hold ship so much that Brienne was convinced that they would not come out of it alive, and prayed to the seven that Lady Catelyn would forgive her for while she could save Sansa from assailants and miscreants, a storm was beyond her power.

They did, though. The sea settled into something approaching calm as she sat with Sansa, on the bed of the cabin that they shared. They’d clutched one another in fright during the worst of the storm, and when the seas calmed, they drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Brienne would later blame that night for everything, though at the time she could only think of how her dreams were full of the revenant, of a howling wolf, and the way that Arya Stark’s sword had, oddly, not dripped of blood.

The almost calm of the sea didn’t last for very long. The winds picked up again as they rounded the fingers, and Brienne was relieved to hear how swiftly the ship was moving. “With winds like this I’d make a poor captain if we were moving slowly,” the captain said gruffly when she asked after the progress, as though insulted that she’d even ask him at all.

“Then the real journey begins,” Sansa said softly, and Brienne glanced at her. “The road from Gulltown to the Bloody Gate is a narrow thing, and goes up into the mountains. I expect winter won’t be any gentler in the south than in the north,” she said. “Especially not in the mountains.”

Brienne nodded grimly. She had heard tell of winter in the Vale of Arryn, of avalanches that swallowed roads whole and of great shadowcats that came down from on high to eat what they could as their prey froze up near their lofty lairs.

The journey went as quickly as it could. To pass the time, Brienne told stories she’d learned from her grandmother, and Sansa taught them a game she had learned in the Vale, or she sang—mostly hymns she’d learned as a girl, but some of them true songs, sad songs like _Alysanne_ or _Jenny of Oldstones_. She had a lovely voice, high and sweet, and Brienne remembered distantly Lady Catelyn asking if she’d ever sung for her father. Now she understood where the question had come from, if Lady Catelyn’s daughter had a voice like that.

It made her own throat dry to listen to her sing, to see the way her lips curved around the words of each song, how her eyes seemed to glow with the story she was telling. Brienne had always feared beauty in some ways—usually for the jeers of men who called her “beauty” when they meant beast. But Sansa’s beauty was as warm as the sun, and Brienne couldn’t help but bask in it.

Sometimes, she thought she saw Sansa watching her, but never long enough for Brienne to think that it was truly happening. _What sort of freakish woman are you, that you yearn so for her gaze?_ Ser Jaime would laugh at her. She thought  _a knight?_

She clutched the furs to her in her sleep and tried to remember Jaime’s face but she could not. She thought of Renly instead—his face came more easily, for he looked so like Gendry, but his blue eyes grew lighter the longer she pictured them and his hair went redder. _Gods help me,_ she thought miserably.

Yet how quickly she forgot her misery when her own gaze met Sansa’s, as if Sansa’s warmth could burn it away for a time. Which only made it that much harder to bear in her absence.

The day before they were to land in Gulltown by the captain’s estimations, an unfathomable expression crossed Sansa’s face. Her expressions were frequently unreadable, Brienne had noted ever since she had first stumbled upon her in the Vale, but this was something new. When they’d returned to their cabin, Sansa spoke.

“I haven’t wanted to trouble you with what must be done while we are here just yet, but it would be foolish not to confide in you,” she said slowly.

“My Lady?” Brienne asked. Sansa was not looking at either of them, and when she turned to face them she seemed to be carrying herself differently. Taller, more sardonic, cooler.

“I spent several years in the Vale,” she said and her voice sounded different as well. “Lord Baelish conceived a disguise for me, one that would keep Queen Cersei from finding me. I was—and most in the Vale knew me as—Alayne Stone, his natural daughter.”

“I know, my lady,” Brienne said. Sansa had told her this when, entirely by accident, their paths had crossed.

But Sansa was shaking her head sadly, and Brienne suspected it had been the wrong thing to say.

“Lord Baelish was a tricky man, and I shall never…never truly regret his death. But he was kind to me, and cared for me in his own way, or at least that’s what I chose to believe when I was a girl. I think I still believe it now—such as he was able to care about anything.” Brienne glanced at the mirror, and saw her own nervousness reflected there. “It was his hand that slew my Aunt Lysa. He pushed her through the Moon Door of the Eyrie. He said that she leapt, and bade me lie about it lest justice fall down on me too, but he pushed her. He…he and _I_ …” She swallowed and for the first time since she’d begun speaking looked—truly _looked_ —at Brienne, and Brienne lost herself in the woe of those blue eyes, so like her mother’s. “We disregarded the advice of the maester, who tended to my late cousin Robert. I didn’t know, you see. I couldn’t have known, no one ever told me…but I’m sure that Lord Baelish knew and…well…he died.”

Brienne could not bear the pain on her face. “My lady, are you saying…”

“Yes, I’m saying,” Sansa sighed and she leaned against the wall of the cabin, her hands clutched together in front of her, not quite imploring, not quite praying. “Lord Baelish had many crimes, and of his more recent ones, I am implicated,” she said. “Of the crimes he committed while in King’s Landing, I am innocent. But of the death of my aunt, my cousin, and I’m sure— _I’m sure_ —whatever financial woes he has left upon the Vale…Alayne Stone is quite as much involved as the adult daughter of any such a man.

“When Jon sent me south, I don’t think he knew this. He can’t have, for I didn’t tell him, and Lord Baelish’s…passing…happened I think too soon for Jon to have heard whispers of all of it. And then of course the war was upon us all and there was no time for King Harrold to confront him about it in full. But I have no doubt in my mind that…that we shall have this to face when we reach the Bloody Gate.”

“You were betrothed to King Harrold,” Brienne stated.

“I was. He knew me first as Alayne, and then my…Lord Baelish told him the truth. He was taken with me for a good long time, but his affections for me cooled during the war.”

“Why?” Brienne asked, and Sansa flushed slightly. “Forgive me, my lady, you needn’t answer that.”

“I…suspect,” Sansa said, “that it was in no small part due to the interference of Sandor Clegane,” she said, the ghost of a fond smile crossing her face. “He was ever a mocking man, though his mockery held truth in it. And Harry… Harry is proud. He never liked being mocked, or made to feel lesser than anyone. Alayne knew that well and used it to her advantage time and time again. But Sansa…Sansa…” she pursed her lips, thinking.

“The Hound was loyal to you,” Brienne cut in. “Everyone said so. Everyone said it was the way that King Joffrey treated you that made the Hound turn tail.”

Sansa smiled sadly and closed her eyes. “Mayhaps,” she said quietly. “Or mayhaps not.”

After a time, she continued. “In any event, I know not what we shall face, but I have my suspicions and prepare for the worst. Just know that…if King Harrold or his court are belittling to me, if they are mistrustful of me, or if they mention Lord Baelish as my father…they are not without reason, and your leaping to my defense immediately,” she smiled at Brienne, “may be less than helpful for me when it comes to getting with Jon wants.”

“If they dare, they shall know my displeasure,” Brienne said stoutly.

Sansa gazed up at her, and her hand twitched at her side, as though she were going to reach out for Brienne but thought better of it. “You truly believe that,” she said, wonder in her voice. “Despite all that I have just told you.”

“I know you, my lady,” Brienne said. “And I serve you—and always shall. I know your heart, where they only know a ruse.”

Sansa blinked brightness back in her eyes and now her hand did move. She reached up and cupped the scar that Biter had given her, and Brienne’s heart stopped. “You are a far better knight than any other in all the kingdoms. And a truer friend than I could have hoped to have at my side.”

That night, when Sansa slept, she buried her face into Brienne’s chest. _No need for a sword between us, for we are women both,_ Brienne thought, her heart racing. If she were a man, there would be. If she had honor, there would be too, but she didn’t know how to tell Sansa that she must put a sword between them. She could imagine Sansa’s confusion, or, worse, her laughter. “ _Ser, there is no need for that, I should think._ ”

 _I am lost,_ Brienne thought, thinking of the way that Sansa had rested her hand on Brienne’s scarred cheek. She prayed to all the gods—old and new—that the winds would bring them to Gulltown, and swiftly. Too many nights aboard this ship, she had woken up holding Sansa tightly in her sleep, Sansa’s head cradled in the crook of her neck. She’d never woken feeling such peace before as she did holding Lady Catelyn’s daughter to her breast. _Gods save my poor depraved soul, I am lost._

They arrived in Gulltown the next day to clear skies and, in comparison to Winterfell, warmth. It was a little brighter for longer during the day, perhaps a whole six hours of sunlight, and as Brienne and Sansa went about preparing for their ride through the mountains, they were both pleased to see that prices for food were high, but not so high as they’d feared.

“There must be a great deal of food here,” Brienne told Sansa. “Perhaps it won’t be so hard to convince the King to sell us some.”

“We can hope,” Sansa said, “but were I he, I’d charge an exorbitant amount to anyone not from the Vale, lest winter last too long and I find myself in need of buying food from across the sea. It’s what Lord Baelish would have done,” she added. The hope that had begun to bubble up in Brienne’s breast died almost at once. _Especially if she says the king is proud._

“That’s never…” came a voice and they turned, Brienne’s hand flying to Oathkeeper’s golden hilt. “It is! My lady, welcome.”

“Ser!” Sansa said graciously, sweeping her skirts out into a curtsey.

“Lord, I fear,” said the man sadly.

“Your father passed?”

“About two months ago,” the man said. “And this is Brienne the Bold, unless my eyes mistake me?”

“My lord,” Brienne said, bowing. “Forgive me—I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“This is Andar Royce. The son of Bronze Yohn, and distant cousin,” she smiled. “His father was ever a good friend to mine.”

“Of course,” Brienne said at once, “I have heard tell of the Royces. Well met, my lord.”

“And you, my lady,” Andar said. “What brings you to Gulltown?”

“My cousin the King in the North has sent me to treat with King Harrold,” Sansa said. _Cousin,_ Brienne noted her calling him now. _So they won’t mistrust her for calling him brother?_ She couldn’t tell. “And since I had spent time here, he thought I should be best suited to the task.”

“I cannot imagine a task better suited to you, my lady,” Lord Andar said. “The Vale is graced by your presence once again. When do you ride for the Bloody Gate? I can’t convince you to stop by Runestone, can I?”

“We make for the Gate at once,” Sansa said. “We were just preparing supplies for the road.”

Andar glanced at them both. “It’s a long walk in winter,” he said. “If you come with me, I shall see you fitted with proper horses, since you’ll be hard pressed to find them here. Only old farm nags and the like here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sansa said. “We brought our horses with us from the north. We stabled them at the inn we’ll be in tonight.”

Andar looked surprised at her words. “I see,” he said, doing his best to recover. “Well, in that case, at least tell me where you are staying that we might dine together tonight. I should like very much to hear of how the north is faring.”

They told him where they could be found, and he bade them good day, and they went off in opposite directions.

Dinner found them dining with Andar and his wife, Arsela Upcliff, who had both come to Gulltown for a wedding. “Not anyone of note,” Andar said, “An old squire of mine who came here following the war to tend to his ailing father. But winter is slow, and any joy that can break up the grey monotony of it is a welcome distraction.”

“How fares winter in the north?” Lady Arsela asked Sansa.

“Hard,” Sansa sighed. “Very hard. The harvest wasn’t a proper harvest in autumn because of Robb’s war, and we are running through our food very quickly.”

“Having hosted more than one war in the middle of winter can’t have helped,” Andar said, cutting a chicken for them to eat.

“No,” Sansa agreed. “It did not.”

“King Jon has a level head on him,” Andar said. “And always has. I’m sure the north will pull through.”

“That is the plan, though quite another thing to see it through,” Sansa replied. “Winter is very hard when there’s no food to be eaten and many mouths to fill.”

“So when you said you came to treat with our King Harrold, I assume you mean over food?” Andar asked, and Sansa nodded.

“My cousin seemed to think I would be best suited to the task.” Andar raised his eyebrows and Sansa gave him a grimace. “And I do not fault him for that. Better me than Jon, I think. I know Harry. Jon thinks he knows Harry.”

“Harry’s only grown harder on your memory in your absence, my lady,” Lord Andar warned. “I know my father tried to ease his thoughts on you as best he could, as I have done as well. It was Lord Littlefinger’s doing, not your own,” he inclined a head kindly, Brienne saw Sansa’s eyes grow hazy for just a moment at his words. “But I fear that time has only made him… well…”

“Kingship sets any man in his ways,” Sansa said. “Even Jon has…” she paused, as if unsure how to finish the thought, and Lord Andar cut in.

“Precisely. It’s kingship. But he’s still Harrold sometimes too, and I would caution you my lady. He can be genial when he likes someone, but when he holds a grudge…”

“So he is the same as all men, then. Hardly half so glorious as the heroes in the songs. And yourself, of course,” she said, patting his arm warmly. Andar smiled.

“You compliment me,” he said, “But I’ve done little to deserve it.”

“Save help me the moment I arrive. That is not nothing, my lord.”

“It is nothing. I assure you.”

“You must beat this modesty from your husband that he learns to take a compliment when it is the truth,” Sansa said, turning to Lady Arsela, who smiled.

“I have tried,” she said. “He is rather insistent on his humility.”

“A truer friend I did not know in the Vale,” Sansa said. “You must come to Jon’s wedding, of course. He would want you there to honor our father’s friendship. They’re to wed at year’s end, if we do not starve.”

“I should like that very much, princess, if the seas are kind,” Andar said, smiling happily. “I should quite like to show my wife the north. Especially the north at peace.”

Dinner was a jovial affair after that. Andar and Brienne told stories of the war, and Sansa gossiped with Arsela, who she had not known when she’d lived in the Vale. By the time the candle at the center of the table had burned low, Andar’s face was bright red from wine and Lady Arsela’s words were slurring. Sansa, however, hardly seemed drunk at all, and Brienne had not had even a sip of wine. They saw the Royces to the door of the inn and then went upstairs.

“He is a good man,” Brienne told Sansa. “Good to warn us, and to dine with us.” Sansa hummed in agreement. Because Brienne couldn’t help herself, she asked, “Are you nervous? About what he said about the king?”

Sansa shook her head. “He confirmed for me my worst fears,” she said. “And in that, I am grateful. I have been preparing for the worst. So I…” she smiled up at Brienne and there was a steely glint to her determination that took Brienne’s breath away, “I think I may be equal to the task if I am very, _very_ careful.”

* * *

* * *

Daenerys

“I’ve had four ravens inquiring about whether Rickon’s been promised to anyone,” Jon said. “Not a raven saying that they would behead any who cannibalized, but four about whether Rickon has been promised to anyone. And Lord Slate’s made mention of the fact that his wife died during the war and he shall be in want of another come spring.” Jon shook his head, disbelieving. “I can’t wait for winter to be over so I can have them all to Winterfell and…” his voice faded. He didn’t finish the thought, but kept shaking his head.

“None has asked after Bran?” Daenerys asked.

“No,” Jon said, and he looked bitter. “Though it is Bran who is my heir and not Rickon. I suppose they think I’ll name Rickon my heir because Bran cannot walk, and that with time I’ll see the reason of this.” He ran his hand over his beard, moodily. “Rickon’s only a boy. He’s only twelve—too young for a betrothal. And I have bigger things to worry about.”

They had had a raven from White Harbor saying that Sansa had been put on a ship sailing south, which had brought a huge relief to everyone. She hadn’t frozen in the snows, and she was on her way. They’d had no reply just yet from Sam or from Tyrion, but the night they’d heard that Sansa was at sea, they’d eaten as though winter was nearly over—as though there was food aplenty, talking and laughing and toasting.

That joy had been temporary, however. Twelve more of Lord Hornwood’s men had been beheaded when it had been discovered they’d eaten the corpse of a dead man along the road. Lord Hornwood was clearly shaken by it, but Jon was firm. “They are your people and you failed them. You will not fail them again,” he had told Lord Hornwood. “It was a crime committed in desperation,” Jon had told Daenerys later, agony on his face. “And how many more will commit it? Is this the North I am to rule until the snow blows over all our corpses?”

Lord Hornwood had grown more and more sullen by the day, and if he had come initially, perhaps, in hopes of marrying one of Jon’s sisters, then he clearly no longer was hoping for it now. Arya was even cooler to him than Jon was, and Lord Tallhart was warm to him, though Daenerys was sure that was because he could smell Lord Hornwood’s failings in the eyes of his king and princess.

That had sent a chill right through Daenerys’ heart, and that night when she’d gone to sleep wrapped in her hrakkar between Irri and Jhiqui, she had dreamt of Drogon again—a strange dream with the sheep and the wolves and blood dripping from the branches of trees.

Daenerys tried not to think of that dream—of any of the dreams she’d had of late. They were cryptic, and eerie. She shook herself, and turned back to Jon.  

“Who is asking after him?”

“The Glovers, Manderly, the Umbers—Smalljon wrote a while back asking after Sansa and Arya as well—and possibly the Mormonts, though I can never tell whether or not Lady Alysane is implying what I think she’s implying.” He stared moodily at the fire. “There are times I wish I’d never won the war and we were all blissfully unaware of the doom we were wreaking across the continent.”

Daenerys laughed humorlessly and took his hand. “If you’re to wed Arya and Sansa, then you must also wed Rickon. He’s the greater prize since he is in line for the throne.” _And his sons will likely be the only one in line for the crown, unless things with Bran change._ She didn’t dare say that out loud.

Jon looked at her. “I know.” He heaved a sigh. “And I want to tell each and every one of them that the matter is less important to me than keeping my people from starving before winter’s end. But I can’t think of a way to do that without Arya invading my mind and telling them all not to be stupid.” He smiled fondly. “Their constant demands makes it difficult to even begin to think of a way to placate them some other way so that my sisters…” he looked suddenly so sad and Daenerys squeezed his hand.

“You did tell your sisters there was no hurry,” Daenerys said. She could not help but feel triumphant at his words, that he gave his heart to his sisters even while his lords circled around him. _It is not like Viserys_ , she thought again, _Even if she does ultimately have to marry, it is still not like Viserys_. She needed that to be true. They never spoke of his true father, the father that was her brother Rhaegar, but she prayed silently to every god she could think of that if there was any part of him that carried Targaryen blood as strongly as it carried his Stark blood, that it would be Rhaegar, and not Viserys and not her father.

“I did. And I meant it. Not so long as winter is this way. But I can’t…I can’t think of another route. What other kings have been in this situation before? Surely there must have been?” He looked at her, then laughed humorlessly. “What? No kings who fought off armies of the dead on dragonback only to have their lords demand their sisters’ hands in marriage?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that tale before,” Dany said gently. “But there will be a way. Perhaps arranging marriages between the lords who ask after Sansa and Arya and Rickon?”

“They’ll see right through that and get angry,” he said. “How many marriageable girls in the North weren’t wed because their fathers held out hopes for Robb? Alys Karstark was one, and Lord Manderly’s granddaughters, and even Meera Reed, perhaps.” She hadn’t known Bran’s friend very well, but she was Jon’s age or near enough.

Daenerys grimaced. “We’ll….”

“Think of something,” Jon said and there was impatience in his voice. “I keep thinking that too. But between you, me, Arya, and Sansa, we’re some of the cleverest people I know and yet the only option that any of us have been able to think of thus far is just saying ‘no,’ which I don’t think is enough.” He looked at her and there was pain in his grey eyes. “I feel weak. I feel like I can’t protect my family. I feel cornered into being a man that I do not wish to be. And I know that’s what kingship is, but gods I wish it weren’t.”

Dany frowned. “Are you so convinced that just telling them no won’t work?” She had done that how many times—and it had not worked, but Jon was always telling her the north was different. Perhaps it was different than he expected too. “You are king. They must follow your rule, not the other way around.”

But Jon was shaking his head again. “That’s not how it works in the north,” he said again. “That’s never been how it works in the north.”

“And when Torrhen knelt before Aegon, did his lords debate his action?”

“It was the northern lords who crowned Robb, not the other way around,” Jon responded. “They crowned me too. I do not doubt they could take it away if I weren’t careful. Even your father was deposed when his lords thought he wasn’t a good king.”

Daenerys took a deep breath. _Your father was mad,_ she told herself. It was as though she were painting over a mural she’d known all her life, one that Viserys had placed in her head with his memories of boyhood and which now she must paint to match the rest of the walls around it. _King Robert was a traitor, but your father burned men alive for no reason at all._ Both could be true—both _were_ true. Weren’t they?

Was this what ruling was like when you had no dragons?

“Would you let Rickon choose who he would marry?” Daenerys asked at last.

He looked at Daenerys. “I think he’d marry a Dothraki woman if he could. Or a woman of the Free Folk. He has…little exposure to the ladies of the north, and he is no less willful than Arya. But he is too young to make a choice, and I think that I’d have to make one for him.” He waited for Daenerys, as though hoping she’d agree with him.

“Perhaps you could invite these ladies to Winterfell—let him have a chance to know them and see if he has a preference.”

Jon grimaced. “If I did that, word would spread and suddenly we’d have every single daughter of the north at our gates.”

“So? Perhaps it’s for the best. A way for you to cow their fathers at worst.” She remembered holding young hostages in Meereen, but suspected that Jon would not like her mentioning it as such. “And at best, a way to have them come to know you, that whoever they marry might think fondly of Winterfell too. They can bring back tales of your gracious hospitality to their fathers’ halls.”

Jon rubbed his palm again, the spot where he’d been burned as a boy. “The idea has merit,” he said slowly. “Though the trouble will always be that we cannot feed them…although, I suspect their fathers can’t either. And it would be good for Rickon to come to know them. And Bran too…” his voice trailed away. “I hate not knowing what to make of Bran,” he said vehemently. “I hate it. He was always a sweet boy, and so precise when we needed him to be precise during the war. But now…” He looked so forlorn. “I wish you could have known him as he was as a child. He and Arya were always throwing snow at people in the late summers, and he would climb _everything_ , even though his mother told him not to. He was so different then.” Jon looked lost. “I don’t know how to help him. And I can’t assume that he will be as he ever was before, but nor can I assume he can’t be. And all I want is for my little brother to come back and be as he was.”

“Even if he weren’t…weren’t as he is, he should still be different. He’s a man grown, and a cripple besides. He can’t climb everything.”

“No, but he could smile, perhaps. He had the warmest laugh.”

He looked so sad, and Daenerys came and sat by his side, kissing him gently. “He’s still alive,” she told him. “You speak as though he is dead.”

At her words, Jon wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. She could feel that strange, erratic thumping of his heart—not quite right, never quite right, but the only way she’d ever known Jon’s heart to sound. How strange, to think that once his heart had beat normally. He was trembling and she couldn’t tell if he was truly crying, or just trying very hard not to, and Dany stroked his hair, knowing that there weren’t any words she could truly say to ease the ache of it all.

_You never mourned me, sister. It is hard to die unmourned._

_He mourns Bran, though Bran is still alive._ That was the hard part of it all, she thought. That Bran was alive, but the Bran they knew had died—perhaps years before.

When Jon released her, he rubbed his eyes and he looked at her, smiling almost shyly. She had never seen him cry before. In anyone else, it might have seemed weak, but in Jon—oh in Jon it made her heart swell for he was truly a good man, she could see that in his tears. “Thank you,” he whispered, and she leaned forward to kiss him.

It was a long kiss, a sweet kiss, and Jon’s hands came up to cup her face. His tongue traced her lips ever so lightly before nudging them aside and coming into her mouth to stroke her own. She wrapped her arms around him more fully and held him close—as close as she could.

It soothed her to kiss him, putting all thoughts of everything from her mind. It always had. Perhaps that was why she liked it so, because the rest of the world ceased to be and it was just the two of them, bearing the weight of the other instead of bearing the weight of the world. She pulled him closer and closer, and Jon’s hands were firmly in her hair now, his fingers weaving their way through her braids. They would be all mussed when this was done, but she would worry about that later. It felt so good, his hands always felt so good.

He broke the kiss and murmured, “Gods, I can’t do this in here.”

Daenerys couldn’t help but laugh, and rested a hand on his chest. “Why not?”

“Because If I am in here, and trying to think of whatever it is that I have to think of in here, I fear my mind shall dwell on you, and though a welcome distraction, I don’t think it will be helpful in the long term.”

“Then let us go elsewhere,” she whispered and kissed him again.

Which was how they found themselves stumbling into Jon’s bedchamber in the middle of the day, closing and barring the door behind them. The room was cold, and they climbed under the furs on the bed before Jon began unlacing Daenerys’ bodice and before she began unfastening his vest. They didn’t strip out of their clothes the whole way—just enough to feel skin against where it mattered, Jon’s lips at her breasts while she kissed the top of his hair. He pulled her skirts up and tugged at the woolen pants that she wore for extra warmth under her skirts, tugging them down her legs until they got caught on the top of her boots. Then he paused.

“I’m trying to decide if it’s worth you kicking off your boots so we can get these off fully.” There was laughter in his voice and it made her blood sing. He ran a finger along the edge of her slit as he did so.

“I suppose as long as we’re careful there’s no real need,” Daenerys snorted, and Jon grinned at her, and bent down to kiss her lips again.

The movement was awkward, her bending her knees so that he could slide his legs down in the gap left between them and the woolen undergarments, now stretched between her ankles. He cursed at least once, and Dany laughed, and he laughed but soon enough he was settled between her legs, his cock pressing into her ever so slightly—until he sheathed himself in her with a groan.

She held him close, pulling his lips to hers, holding him, cradling him within her as he rocked his hips into hers. How sweet he felt, how sweet his lips tasted against hers, how the erratic beating of his heart grounded her as she closed her eyes and lost herself in the sensation of it all.

Nothing else mattered but the two of them just then. Nothing in the _world_ mattered because Jon was moaning as he thrust into her, and she was gasping and shifting her hips slightly because when she tilted her hips just like that, she could see stars.

When they’d both spent themselves, they lay there in one another’s arms, and Dany let herself drift in and out of sleep, her face buried in the crook of Jon’s neck and his fingers trailing up and down her spine.

She could taste raw meat, and thought she heard a voice, saying something to her and she jolted awake. “Did you say something?” she asked Jon.

He frowned. “No. What did you hear?”

“I…I don’t know,” she said. Something about it was familiar, but she didn’t know what.

She couldn’t sleep after that. They had entered the dark part of the day and soon enough it would be time for dinner. When she extricated herself from Jon—whose legs were still twisted between hers and the woolen undergarments, and climbed from his bed, going to the glass to see how her hair looked.

 _Loved,_ she thought. The braids were loose and some had come undone. She undid the rest of them and decided to let her hair flow in silver waves down her back. Jon came up behind her and kissed the top of her head.

There was a knock at the door and she heard Missandei’s voice. “Your grace?”

“Come in,” Dany bade before remembering that Missandei had undoubtedly come for Jon, not her. It hurt more than it should have. _I’m not a queen_ _,_ she thought, _And Missandei is not my steward, for all she’s my friend._

Missandei came in as Jon climbed from the bed. Her friend did not remark upon the mussed state of either of their hair and the very telling messiness of the bed.

“Your grace, a letter arrived from Casterly Rock.” She crossed the room and handed it to Jon, who read quickly.

“Well?” Dany asked eagerly. Surely Tyrion would help them.

He handed the letter to her wordlessly, and she read.

 _Your grace, I wish you great joy in your upcoming wedding and would be more than happy to attend at year’s end should my lords bannermen behave themselves long enough for me to think leaving them behind is a wise choice. I wish you and Daenerys ever the greatest happiness._ She smiled at his words. She could hear Tyrion saying them. _As regards the other matter—I am not sure that I have the food to sell you at the moment, though it pains me to admit it. If it’s a matter of lending gold, I could aid you, though you say you do not wish to take on additional debt at this time. If that has changed, let me know. Gold takes time to travel, and even more gold to guard on the road, but I can, at least, offer you a better rate on the loan than the Braavosi._

She looked at Jon. “He said he’d lend to us, at least,” she said.

“I want food, not debt,” Jon said.

“Sometimes you must take on debt to grow your resources,” Missandei said.

“I know,” Jon said. “I must think,” he said. He looked at Daenerys. “If Sansa can manage in the Vale, then we may not _need_ the additional debt, and I’d prefer that most of all. By the time we sorted out terms with Tyrion, it may be unnecessary.”

“Or it may be too late and we’ll starve,” Dany said. Jon grimaced.

“I want to have faith in my sister,” he said.

“And I do too, but I’d also like us not to be caught without means if she fails.”

Jon rubbed the scar on his palm, thinking. “I’ll write to him and find out the terms of his loans at least. We can’t make a decision without those.”

* * *

* * *

 

Arya

Ever since the smallfolk of Hornwood had arrived, Arya changed the way she spent her days.

She woke before dawn, pulling herself from between Bran and Rickon and going into her bedchamber to dress. If Bran was awake—she could tell by the way he was breathing, she would whisper to him. It would change every day. Sometimes it was pleading, “ _Come back, Bran,_ ” other times it was sterner, “ _I won’t let you stay like this forever. I won’t let them have you._ ” He would never reply, but Arya was sure that he heard because sometimes something would twitch—a finger, or the corner of his mouth, or his eyes beneath their closed lids. How, though, Arya wasn’t sure. _He doesn’t even run with the wolves anymore._ What avenue remained her except speaking with him. By now the wolf pack was far to the east, sniffing their way through the Hornwood, seeing if they could scent out any large game. They would eat their fill, and then try to drive the game back to Winterfell.

Some of them didn’t understand why, but Nymeria and Ghost and Summer and Shaggy were more than enough to cow the smaller wolves into doing what they wanted, and what the direwolves wanted was what Winterfell needed.

But with the wolves so far, not even their song could stir Bran.

When she was dressed she’d go down to the kitchens for food. She never took too much food—it felt odd to eat her fill when so many hungered, though she knew as a Stark of Winterfell she was more than entitled to it. She’d take what she didn’t eat and bring it with her, out of the castle walls, through the winter town, to the very edge where she found Lord Hornwood’s smallfolk in their tents, huddling for warmth. She would find a child—one she didn’t recognize, and she could always remember the ones she’d seen before—and give the child the remaining pieces of her rations. The child would wolf it down, with thanks, and hurry off shyly.

Then Arya would speak with the smallfolk. “What more can the castle do for you?” she would ask. Sometimes there were no answers. “We have shelter the king can provide. That’s more than enough.” “You keep us well stocked in firewood, and the woods aren’t so far that we can’t go and cut more ourselves.” “We’ve been using the summer wools you’ve sent to make more blankets to keep us warm.”

Other times, though, there were specific requests—usually the one: “Please, princess, a bite to eat?”

“I can’t,” Arya would say, her heart breaking with the words, “The king has lowered rations, not raised them. I know it’s not much, but if we aren’t careful there’ll be none at all.”

 _None at all—you know best of all what that means._ She didn’t have to say the last part. The Hornwood men knew—gods be good, they knew.

She would watch as their eyes would go distant, would fill with tears at her words. Sometimes, though, there was anger. “Lowering rations, but _they_ still have feed for their horses,” one man spat, jerking his head in the direction of the khalasar’s encampment. Arya did not know what to say to that. But every time someone mentioned it, fear knotted in her heart. _If they start fighting…_ She did not doubt that Daenerys’ Dothraki screamers would make fast work of the starving people of Hornwood.

She would sit with them until she heard the midday bell, listening to them. Sometimes it would be memories of the good old days, of the high summer she’d known as a girl, when they’d had harvest festivals every month and the markets were full of summer squash, and corn, and greens as far as the eye could see. Sometimes it would be tales of those who had died—mothers and fathers who had frozen, or hungered themselves to the grave. Frequently, there were the bitter whisperings about Bolton’s bastard. They’d have had food for the winter had it not been for Bolton’s bastard, who cared not to make sure that food was stored for winter, though Winterfell had commanded it of their lady. Lady Donnella, they said, had returned from Winterfell with orders from the little prince to put a quarter away, and she’d begun to see it through, until Ramsay Snow had come along. “I’m glad House Stark killed him,” said one woman angrily. “Never saw a man worthier of death than him. Begging pardons, my lady, I know you wed him.”

“I didn’t,” Arya said, remembering Jeyne. Frightened Jeyne with her frostbitten nose and fingers and toes who’d taken one look at Arya’s long face and begged for her life, as though Arya would be so cruel as to take it. “They said someone else was me, but I never married him.”

She thought of Jeyne across the sea with Theon, Lady of Pyke now. She hoped they had food. She hoped they weren’t so frozen as this, and prayed to all the gods that the both of them knew peace. She wondered if they’d send salted fish if Jon asked it. Of all the friends that Jon had reached to while they starved, Theon had not been one of them.

“Is it true, my lady, that there’s a pack of wolves?” asked one child. “That they’ll come and eat us?” He had big brown eyes and was missing his two front teeth and when he asked, his father hushed him.

“House Stark’s sigil is the wolf, child,” his father said, “You must have heard wrong.”

“I didn’t,” yelped the boy. “Gawen said that there was a whole host of wolves and that they ate little children who didn’t obey their papas.”

“Well…that part’s true,” the father japed. “Everyone knows that wolves eat little boys who don’t obey their papas.”

“There is a pack of wolves,” Arya said. “They’re far away, now, but they’ll return.”

The pack, however, was getting smaller every day. If there wasn’t enough for the people of the north to eat, there also wasn’t enough for the wolves. Each night, when she ran in Nymeria’s skin, she watched little grey cousins fall, hungry. The sickly and the small first, but slowly, more and more. Some of them broke away from Nymeria’s pack, too. _Not dogs,_ they would communicate angrily to their queen. _Not dogs herding sheep. We hunt the sheep._ Nymeria would snarl, trying to keep them there, but off they would go on their own, north or south or east or west, the pack dwindling down.

It hurt to see them go—Nymeria had loved this pack that had taken her in as a pup and watched her grow to be their queen—but she could not force any of them to stay.

 _Soon the pack will be nothing,_ Arya thought. _Winter breaks everything in the end._

Her father had called them the hard times. He’d been right.

 _Share one another’s strengths_ , she thought. What strength was there to share? It was a thought that plagued her when she walked back through the winter town towards the gates of the castle. The answers that came to her mind felt flimsy.

She had her sword, and, more importantly, her wits. She could help Jon—and did, when he sought her council. She could sit with Bran, and teach Rickon, and train Gendry because she could see how much anger there was in her friend that he couldn’t train alongside the other fighting men. _He’s sharing his strength in the forge,_ she thought, _And Rickon’s too young, and Bran’s…lost to us, and Jon and Daenerys steer us forward._

_But what of me?_

Even Sansa, it seemed, had strength to help with. She was south again, using what subtleties she’d learned in King’s Landing and with Lord Baelish to feed them.

_And what of me?_

Arya could change her face, but that couldn’t help anything. She could command wolves, but now that war was over, the wolves were not as helpful as they had been, for wolves needed to eat too, and when there wasn’t food to be had, their eyes turned to men with hunger. They weren’t, as they kept reminding Nymeria, sheepdogs.

Was there a place for her here? Had there ever been? Or had she been lying to herself for years, trying to convince herself that the truths she knew about herself mattered more than what her parents had wanted for her. _You shall marry…_ her father had said, and who cared if it had been a king he said she’d marry. Her father, who had loved her, and let her keep Needle, and hired Syrio to train her had still known that she would have to marry, have sons of her own one day.

She kicked at the snow and it crunched against her boot.

 _It will be better come spring,_ she thought hopelessly. _There will be more to do. It won’t just be sitting here in the snow, waiting to die. There will be life, there will be food, there will be…_

There would be more she could do to help Jon. There was always plenty of work to be done for the Starks of Winterfell. Jon knew that, she was sure. He’d been older than she when their father still sat in the seat of the Starks and even she had known there’d always been work to keep him busy. _I could do_ anything _he tasked me with,_ she thought. _Anything at all. I know I could._

Except he’d already given her a task. And she hated it. She could give her heart, and soul, and mind to the north, but it was her womb that the north asked for—that Jon asked for.

She paused in the practice yards. Brandon Tallhart and Larence Hornwood were sparring. A part of her wanted to go and spar with them, just to show them that she was quicker and better than both of them, and how dare they think they could tame her. But even the prospect of the looks on their faces was not sweet enough to relieve her gloom. She’d trained long and hard with Needle, but she wasn’t just a sword, anymore than she was just a womb.

She hated this. Hated that she felt as silly and sad as she had been as a girl when she wasn’t that little girl anymore.   And yet even her daily routines caused her to question who she was, what she was, why she was, as if she hadn’t declared for all the world so many times that she was Arya Stark and that there was more to her than her name.

She drifted, as ever she did, over to the forge where Gendry was hammering away on some new project. Marya was there today, and he was showing her something. He caught sight of Arya as he stood by Marya and nodded to her. She waited for him to finish, going and looking at the weapons rack. There was his war hammer, there was his bull’s head helm. Someone had said he should make it a stag’s helm now that they knew who his father was and the black look he’d given had been enough to scare the man away from him completely.

Gendry came over to her. “More of the same?” he asked her, and she snorted.

“Am I so predictable?”

“At this point, yes,” he said.

“You must tire of me.”

“Not just yet,” he shrugged.

After a moment she whispered to him, “I don’t know what I’m to be.” Gendry frowned, and she added, “I mean—I don’t know what role I’m to fill, what purpose I’m to have. To help Jon, yes, and in any way I can, but…” she chewed her lip. “I can do so much, and be so much, but I’m not sure _what_ is best.”

Gendry’s frown only deepened. “Do you mean like…being hand of the king, or master of ships or something?”

Arya sighed. “I suppose. Not that Jon’s set anything like that.” She frowned. He _hadn’t_ set anything like that. That seemed like an oversight. He’d led the Night’s Watch, after all, and had been King in the North for years. He had friends and allies he relied upon, but he hadn’t actually organized any structure at all. _He is trying to do it all himself. That’s foolish of him._ In a pack, each wolf served its purpose. Everything was structured around the alpha. _He’s ruling the north as father ruled it, but father wasn’t a king._

“And do you have to be something?” Gendry asked her.

“What does that mean?” She prepared herself for everything she could imagine Gendry saying—how she was a Stark so she wouldn’t understand, how lords and nobles always felt they had to be something but what did any of that truly matter—as if he weren’t standing there bitter that he wasn’t being treated as a knight just now.

“Any role he gives you—you’re more than that,” he said simply. “So why _must_ you have a role? Why can’t you just be you?”

Arya stared at him. She wanted nothing more than to just be herself—but that wasn’t how it worked. She knew that. She’d never seemed to fit in anything that she’d been told to be, not with Septa Mordane trying to make her a lady, not in Braavos. She had always bent everything around her to make room for her. She’d always been terrible at becoming the role.

But could she do that in the north? Would Jon let her? If anyone could, it would be Jon, surely. He’d understand, and call her little sister, and trust her the way he always had.

“I should make the role, not the other way around,” she said softly.

“As you’ve always done,” Gendry said simply. She gave him a look and he snorted. “The first thing I remember thinking about you was that you broke all the rules. Girls aren’t supposed to be fierce, but you were. They’re not supposed to fight, but you did. Highborns don’t care for the smallfolk—though they should—but you did. So you’re a princess. You were a lady back then too, but you didn’t behave the way ladies did, and don’t get that look on your face and say you’re not a lady because you didn’t wear dresses, or whatever it is that you are going to say, you were a lady. What is it that you care about now?”

Her thoughts flew to the smallfolk she’d sat with that morning, to her pack ranging out in the east, to Bran staring unseeing at the ceiling or seated before a weirwood, to Jon—to Jon most of all, and all the north.

 _I make myself, they don’t make me_ , she thought.

It centered her to think that.

She had to something to fight for now, and she knew how to do it. It had always been there, inside her, that stubborn little girl who knew her own mind and who focused on what was right and not what anyone told her to be. Who cared if Jon didn’t know how to use her—she’d make him see, just as she always had. She loved her brother dearly, loved him best of all her siblings perhaps, but if he was going to be stupid, she’d have to show him.

Just as she did with everyone else.

When she pulled away from Gendry, she could see fire in his face, could feel it mirroring her own. He looked so beautiful looking at her like that.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

His lips twitched. “For what?”

“Not letting me be stupid when everyone else has been.”

Gendry snorted. “You’re the least stupid person I know. I know this because I enjoy spending time around you, unlike everyone else.”

She left the forge and made a beeline through the courtyard to the main keep, passing Rickon working with his spear and some of the Hornwood boys—the tallest of the batch that were still boys and not quite men—learning how to use swords and arakhs.

She found Jon where she so frequently found him—in the solar her father had once ruled from, with Maester Wolkan and Daenerys both sitting at his side. They all of them looked very serious.

“Jon,” she said moving into the room, and they all looked at her. “Can I speak with you?”

Jon looked to Daenerys and to the maester, then said slowly, “Can it wait?” She saw now that his expression was even more somber than usual, and that there was an emptiness to his grey eyes that she hadn’t been expecting.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, coming and sitting down at the table with them.

“The Umbers are marching on the Thenns,” he said and Arya felt the air leave her.

“ _Why?_ ” she asked in disbelief.

But Jon shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “But I must ride north at once.”


	8. Chapter 8

Jon

“I’ll go with you.”

He loved her for that, his wonderful little sister—loyal to the end. She’d come into the room with her eyes alight for the first time in ages, and the first words off her lips when he told her of the news was that she would go with him.

“No,” he said. “You should stay here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Both Rickon and Bran will be here,” Arya said. “Let me ride with you. I can bring the pack as well, and maybe we can see if there’s game to be had on our way there and back.”

“I want it, little sister, but—”

“But what? Why shouldn’t I go? Am I more needed here?”

“You’re the eldest Stark in Winterfell,” Jon said. “Especially since Bran can’t oversee the castle in my absence, and Rickon is too young, someone must remain here.”

“Am I to go with you?” Daenerys asked quietly, and Jon glanced at her.

“I didn’t mean _that_ ,” he said gently, reaching for her hand.

“So you would leave us both behind, then?”

Jon blinked at them both. His instinct had been to leave them both here.  They would both be safer in Winterfell than facing the unknown to the north.  But that had been instinct, and a king must think with more than instinct.  If he brought Daenerys but not Arya, his sister would be wroth with him. If he _didn’t_ bring Arya, Daenerys would feel that her presence to help Rickon as Stark in Winterfell—when the two of them were increasingly as thick as thieves with their Dothraki lessons—was all for show. _Arya understands the North better,_ he thought. But if he said as much to Dany, what discord might he sew?

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “You don’t mind?” he asked Daenerys, looking at her evenly. There was something guarded in her violet eyes, but he did not dare ask her what it meant while the maester and his sister were both present.

She inclined her head, but didn’t say a word. He turned back to Arya, and said. “Please do come with me, little sister. But you’re the one who has to tell Rickon that we’re leaving him.”

Arya nodded fervently, and her eyes shifting briefly to Dany as well. Was he imagining it, or did he see a shadow of doubt there.

It could not matter—not now. He handed Arya the letter that had come that morning from Alys Karstark, and watched her face closely as she read it.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last. “Smalljon and Sigorn—they seemed friendly enough all things considered.”

“If I had to guess,” Jon said slowly, “there’s more that Lady Alys isn’t saying. The Thenns know how to survive an even crueler winter than even our northmen—” he caught himself. “They are our northmen now. But all the same, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was…I don’t know.” Because he didn’t. But he’d learn soon enough. And how many men would he take, and how much provisioning, and with snows even harder up north, how much time would it truly take?

 _Damn them,_ he thought. _Damn them both._

Whatever it was that Arya had come to speak to him about, it seemed it fell from her mind as they sat together. What was the appropriate amount of men, especially if there was going to be a retinue of wolves with them? The Kingsroad would take them right to Last Hearth—but would Alys and Sigorn take offense to them going to the Umbers first when it was they who had written? “It’s winter,” Jon said. “They’ll have to understand, one way or another.” He supposed he should count himself lucky that there weren’t any lords in the Dreadfort at the moment, lest there be yet another house to contend with while they made their way to Karhold—if they made their way to Karhold.

“We should have Sigorn and Alys meet us in Last Hearth,” Arya suggested. “Make sure that the Smalljon knows, and that way we can keep our own travel to a minimum. If we have to go east, we’ll go east, but let that come out of Smalljon’s larder and not our own.”

Jon agreed to this, and to the proposition that they ride out before dawn three days hence to give themselves some time to prepare for the road, but not so much time that the situation would grow worse than it already was.

And, true to her word, Arya was the one who broke the word to Rickon at dinner.

Jon’s heart broke as he watched his little brother’s face crumple, and as he stabbed his food with added intensity as Arya explained. “We’ll be back before you know it,” she said.

“Liar,” Rickon mumbled, more child than man in that moment.

“I am not a liar,” Arya said firmly, and she tilted Rickon’s face to look at her. “Shaggy will be with Nymeria, and Nymeria will be with me. You can run with us at night and it will be like we’ve never gone.”

“Except it will be,” he said firmly. “I know that Sansa’s gone. You’ll be just as noticeable.”

Arya looked at Jon for help, but gods only knew he didn’t know what to say to make matters better either. _He must grow out of this,_ Jon thought. _He can’t do this every time one of us rides out._ “Rickon,” he said, leaning forward. “This is the last time I wish to see you behave like this when we tell you we are leaving. That’s a command from your king.”

Rickon glared at him, and muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“I said it’s a _stupid_ command,” he snapped and he got to his feet and stormed from the great hall, likely so none of them could see him cry.

Jon and Arya shared a look. “He must learn not to do that,” Jon said.

“I don’t think that was the way to do it,” she said quietly.

“Well—what was a better way?”

“Coming back,” Arya said. “You, me, Sansa. We all need to come back.”

Jon tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. _He was raised without father or mother,_ he reminded himself. _Just the spearwife Osha and a time with Ser Davos._

_He is a prince, and like as not my heir._

“He should come with us,” Jon said, glancing at Arya. “Or, perhaps in your stead.”

Arya’s eyes were like ice and he shook his head. “Damn you both and your stubbornness.”

“The same could be said of you,” Arya said, and he laughed. The prospect of their riding out together seemed to have eased whatever ill she felt towards him given that he had told her she must wed. Perhaps riding north with her would be almost pleasant—if not for the ice, starvation, and the possibility that they’d all be drowned in a snow drift.

He turned to Daenerys, who was sitting there, watching it all with that same unfathomable look in her eyes. “You’ll look after him, won’t you?”

“No, I fully intend to murder him in his sleep and wrest the northern crown from House Stark to rule in my own name,” Daenerys said dryly. “Of _course_ I’ll look after him. I’m the family he has here now apart from Bran, and I’m not even truly his kin just yet.”

She gave him a significant look and this one he understood. He squeezed her hand under the table. “Guide him,” he said carefully. “I’m sure he’ll find meetings on governance less fun than training with Grey Worm and his Dothraki friends, but he must learn.”

“He’ll learn,” Daenerys said simply. “And don’t forget—we have guests who are set to arrive just after you depart. That shall keep him more than occupied.”

Jon cursed. “I had forgotten.”

“What?” Arya asked, confused.

“Several of Jon’s lords bannermen have designs on Rickon for their daughters,” Daenerys explained. “And said daughters will be coming to Winterfell before the month is out—while you both are off.”

Arya took a sip of her beer. “I can’t tell if I’m glad to be missing that or sad that I shall miss poor Rickon at the center of a blood sport. I think, for the time being, I’m glad of it.” She shot Jon a stern look.

“I’m going to be spending the entire journey fending off you telling me not to make you marry, aren’t I?” Jon asked, trying to keep his voice light.

“Like as not,” Arya said. “Coming up with better plans is as good a pastime while making our way north as anything else.”

Much later as he was preparing for bed, Daenerys came in and sat down on the furs. She did not undress, and he wasn’t wholly sure she planned to stay with him that night. He hoped she would. Now that he would soon be leaving her for a time, he wanted to spend every moment he could with her.

“Were you worried I couldn’t handle it on my own?” she asked him quietly. Her eyes were bright and he couldn’t tell if it was just the light or if she was trying not to cry.

“Of course not,” he said gruffly. “But I didn’t want you to have to.” He cupped her face, and ran his thumb across her cheek. Her skin was so soft.

“Are you certain?” she asked him. She seemed hesitant somehow, though not nervous. _She has ruled in her own right._

_But not the north. And if she is to rule at my side as I want, as we both want…_

“Does it surprise you that that might be why?” he asked her.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” she said. “I can hold Winterfell with Rickon until you return.” Jon kissed her and hoped that it would ease her mind. It didn’t seem to. “I am learning,” she said quietly. “I’m learning I swear—what you mean when you speak of how the north must be ruled. It’s a different kind of ruling than I have known, but I am learning.”

“I know you are,” he said, but in his heart of hearts, he wasn’t sure he believed it. But he would never tell her that. He would be sure to speak to Rickon alone before he left. Gods knew that the boy would need it. “I know you are.”

* * *

* * *

Gendry

“Leaving?”

“Yes. With Jon.”

The words were a blow to him. He would not have thought it until she said them.

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Arya said. “We’ll be gone for a little while, but will be back when it’s all sorted out. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’ll know it,” Gendry grumbled, and Arya gave him a strange look.

“Rickon said much the same. Can you not live without me?”

Gendry glared at her, and her face cracked in a grin. “Shut up,” he told her.

“Mayhaps,” she shrugged. “Mayhaps not.”

“Stay alive, will you? It’d be just like you to survive all these wars only to freeze one winter’s night out of spite.”

“Only if you stay alive too,” she said. “I imagine you’ll have an easy time with it, so long as you don’t drop an anvil on your head.”

And she was gone. Gendry watched her dart out of the forge with a spring in her step that he had not seen in ages and which—god help him—affected him too much.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way her hips swayed back and forth as he went to beat steel, the way her eyes were shining again, the way her body had felt when she’d thrown her arms around him just the day before.

 _Stupid_ , he thought, and it was in her voice that he thought it. _Stupid stupid stupid fool._

 _You won’t be stealing kisses from no princesses_ , he remembered Lem saying once. He hadn’t wanted to then, but now…

_Stupid._

It made a good rhythm to think as he swung his hammer again and again against the steel. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

But that didn’t change anything at all.

And she’d be going—off ranging with her brother the king, and her wolves, just like he’d always thought she would when he’d been barely more than a boy. It had upset him then—that she could be the cleverest, kindest, smartest girl he’d ever met, but they’d never truly be equal with her royal blood and noble background.

 _You’ve got royal blood too,_ some traitor corner of his brain said. _You’ve got King Robert’s blood._

_That fat bastard never cared a lick about me._

Not the way Arya had. Did.

And she’d be gone now, and then what would he have? Her visits to the forge made him almost feel fine working there instead of training or doing whatever it was that knights did in times of peace. Now he didn’t even have training with her to look forward to. He’d been getting better, too, he thought. Or at least, he hadn’t been losing to her quite as quickly as he had that first day.

The next day came and Arya only stopped by the forge for a quick moment between preparation for her journey.

And then she was gone. Gendry got up early to see her ride out, but he’d only waved to her from a distance. He didn’t say a proper goodbye to her, nor she to him—then she was just gone and he was left in the stupid forge with his stupid hammer and the memory of her laughter as she’d told him not to drop an anvil on his head.

Another day passed where Marya came to the forge—this time her two daughters came with her, both of them watching as Gendry and their mother worked in tandem on some armor that needed to be resized. Gendry hadn’t seen them this closely before. Both girls were skinny, and had their mother’s square face. Nora, the elder of the two, crouched down by the fire, with the bellows whenever her mother told her to. She had strong arms for one so small, Gendry noted approvingly. Maggy, the smaller of the two, sat on a work bench shivering, clutching her cloak around her even though the forge was warm enough.

“You can sit closer to the fire if you like,” Gendry told Maggy, who looked at him with wide, sunken eyes. She got to her feet and moved closer to it, squatting down next to her sister. Gendry frowned after her. She was still so skinny, and that she was cold even in the forge…

“She had a fever yesterday,” Marya told him as they returned to the armor. “I didn’t want to leave her home alone. She’ll be better soon enough. She’s always been a bit sickly, and winter is hard on the body.”

Gendry grunted in agreement, and Marya shot him a look. “Thank you for caring,” she said.

“Of course I’d care,” he said.

“Aye,” Marya agreed. “But some don’t.”

“I kept watch over a group of children in the riverlands for a while—orphans,” Gendry said. It felt like a lifetime away. “There’s always some that need more taking care of than others.”

“Everyone needs taking care of,” Marya said and gave Gendry a bemused look. He rolled his eyes and that made her laugh.

“Come on, then,” he said, turning back to the armor. He almost felt like laughing himself—the first time he’d felt like that since he’d learned that Arya would be leaving. He missed her. More than he knew how to say. Part of him wanted to tell Marya that. Part of him knew she’d tease him mercilessly for it, pretending to be his mother or something. He didn’t want that.

The day after that he was back on his own, and drank himself into a light drunk over lunch so that he was bloody useless during the afternoon.

On the third day after Arya had left, he heard a knock on the door to the forge behind him and turned to see Hliziffo standing there.

“You haven’t been training,” the Dothraki man told him.

“No,” Gendry said.

“And you only train with the khalakki?”

Gendry frowned. He’d not heard that word before, but he could guess what it meant. “I was,” he said.

Hliziffo made a tsking sound and gestured him out of the forge. “You fight with me now.”

“I have to finish,” he said, but Hliziffo gave him a look and Gendry felt himself relaxing. He put aside his hammer, stuck the sword he’d been beating into the icemelt bucket where it sizzled, then grabbed his tunic and furs and joined the Dothraki man in the courtyard.

Hliziffo handed him an arakh.

“I can’t fight with this,” he said at once.

“Then not a fighter,” Hliziffo said. “Just another big Westerosi in a steel dress.”

The edge of the weapon was dull—a practice blade, and when he took another look at Hliziffo’s arakh he saw that that one had a dulled edge too. The weapon weighed oddly in his hand, not quite balanced.

Hliziffo corrected his grip, as Arya had once done, and then showed him a few ways to cut and block. Then the two begin.

Gendry had lost quickly when sparring with Arya—he lost even quicker to Hliziffo, who laughed not unkindly when he disarmed Gendry for the third time.

“Size not everything,” he said.

“It would be if I punched you and wrestled you to the ground,” Gendry muttered. He was taller than the Dothraki man, and had bigger muscles. If he got him in the dirt, there’s no way the other man would get up. But he raised the arakh, again, and lost, again, but by the time that Hliziffo told him enough was enough, he felt almost alright.

 _Arya would have pissed herself laughing, watching that_ , Gendry thought as he made his way back to the forge. He could see it now. He wondered if she’d ever fought with an arakh.

A thought crawled through his mind, her face looking impressed, approving, as he used the curved weapon when she came back. She’d not expect it of him—no one would. All anyone seemed to care about was how well he could swing his war hammer, like his father before him.

And how well he could swing a hammer against steel as he worked his way through the pile of weapons in need of repair that seemed to be growing higher, and higher. _If I’m still smithing come spring, Jon Snow and I are going to have stern words about what I’m owed._

He kept working, because working kept his head busy, and when he was working, he could hear her voice in his hammering, calling him _stupid, stupid, stupid_ , and he could forget, for just a few hours, that she’d gone again.

* * *

* * *

Sansa

They arrived at the Bloody Gate with snow in the air.

Sansa dismounted from her horse and it was brought away by a groom. For a moment, it looked as though no one was going to come out to greet them. Then the wide oak doors opened and there stood Myranda Royce, wrapped in a heavy cloak and furs.

“Now there’s a face I’d thought never to see again,” Myranda said, her narrow eyes belying the smile on her face. “Princess,” she curtseyed. “and…Ah yes. I remember you. My lady of Tarth, is that right?”

“My lady,” Brienne said, bowing, her hand resting on her sword. Sansa knew Brienne well enough to know that she did not place her hand there casually. She could have hugged her for that, were she not determined to be as detached before all of Harry’s court.

“Come in before you catch cold. Or…I suppose you may never catch cold. Do Starks grow ill from the cold?”

“It’s been known to catch us in our sleep sometimes,” Sansa said and she climbed the great stone steps and entered the Bloody Gate.

It was cold inside the castle, despite the roaring fire and the tapestries on the wall. There was something familiar about them.

“Lord Littlefinger had them sent over from the Red Keep. Do you remember? You must, I suppose. You were so very close,” Myranda said. Sansa kept her face very composed. She knew Myranda better than Myranda knew her. That hadn’t always been true, but she was sure it was now. _Myranda never knew Sansa Stark, but I knew Myranda Royce._ “I was sorry to hear of his passing—for your sake, of course. Gods only know the trouble he’s caused here. I believe my uncle and King Harrold are still sorting out the hell he put into the books, but, well,” she shrugged.

Myranda showed them to a set of rooms near the room where her cousin Robert had died. She told them that baths would be drawn for them to ease the aches of the road and that she’d be sure that there would be a setting for them at dinner. “You know your way around, of course, so I shan’t ferry you hither and thither as I would another guest,” she said before closing the door with a snap behind her.

Sansa settled into the bathtub. The water was lukewarm, and growing cooler by the second, but it was enough to scrub her skin clear and to wash her hair. When she climbed from the tub, she brushed her hair until it shone and put it in a simple braid straight down her back, like the one she had worn as Alayne. If there were more time, she’d do something more elaborate with it. She knew well that she had to look the part. She put on her finest grey gown with an ermine lining and long dagged sleeves and when she saw herself in the mirror, though she looked as fine as ever she had in this castle. _I don’t look like Alayne. I am older._ Only the simple braid would harken Harry back to the days when he’d tried so hard to keep her attention.

She knocked on the door across the hall from her and found Brienne wearing a fresh tunic, looking clean as well. Sansa felt a rush of safety looking up at Brienne. _No ill will befall me so long as Brienne is at my side,_ she thought. How glad she was of that. It made her feel steady, and the gods only knew she needed to be steady now. _I must let Brienne be my rock,_ she thought.

“Are you ready?” Sansa asked Brienne. Brienne nodded and offered her arm to Sansa. Sansa took it. She’d never held the other woman’s arm before in quite this fashion. She shouldn’t be as surprised by the strength of her muscles underneath, but found that she was. Sansa steered Brienne down to the main hall of the Bloody Gate, which served as the seat of House Arryn when winter locked the Eyrie away from the world.

A hush filled the hall when they entered, and she saw many faces she recognized. Terrance Linderly sat by the door, lost in his cups, though he was far too young to be drinking so heavily.  Jon Redfort had frozen in his seat at the sight of her and Symond Templeton hissed something in his ear. She took heart at the sight of Mya Stone, seated among the guardsmen, her flashing blue eyes lighting up when she saw Sansa. It made her feel steadier, knowing she had a friend here—a friend who had known her then. She squeezed Brienne’s arm a little tighter. She was near as muscled as the Hound. _I am safe with her. I trust her to keep me safe._

She hadn’t even trusted Sandor with that, when he’d drunkenly offered that during the Battle of the Blackfire. She would have gone, had it been Brienne offering her. She was sure of that.

When they reached the front of the hall, Sansa released Brienne’s arm and took a step forward so that she stood alone across the table from Harry.

He turned to her, and there was a smirk playing along his lips under his fine gold beard. His hair had grown long and curly, and his blue eyes shone amidst the gold, but unlike Mya’s eyes they did not shine with warmth. _Horrible Harrold, still as beautiful as ever_.

“Your grace,” Sansa said, sinking into a curtsey.

“Princess Sansa…or would you prefer Lady Alayne in these halls?” Harry asked. There were more whispers.

She did not reply. There was no response that wouldn’t make her sound petulant, and she was a Stark of Winterfell, in a line of kings that stretched back thousands of years. He’d only claimed the name Arryn when Robert had died.

“Sansa, I suppose, given the color of your gown,” Harry continued. “Or had you thought I might have forgotten, Alayne? Might need a little visual reminder with the colors of your house. Your _true_ house.”

Sansa waited. _Let him speak,_ she remembered Lord Littlefinger saying. _He’s fool enough to trap himself in his own words. Let him speak._

“But of course, the Vale remembers your father well. Both of them. The honorable and beloved Ned Stark and the Lord of the Fingers. One was more honorable than the other, but I only heard you call that other ‘father.’ I can’t say I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

“I can’t expect he’d be surprised by that, your grace,” Sansa said, and the hall managed a light laugh.

“Is it true that you poisoned him? I heard that whisper once, but couldn’t quite tell if it was true. They say you poisoned Joffrey as well. Have you come to poison me?”

“I’m afraid I know little of poisons,” Sansa said, arching her eyebrows. “I can assure you that if I had, I’d have found a way to rid the world of Joffrey a little sooner.”

The woman seated at Harry’s left coughed, and Harry said, “Ah but of course! You haven’t met my queen yet, have you Sansa?” Sansa recognized her at once. Marissa Grafton’s father had been a friend to Lord Petyr. Why had Harry married her? But of course—Gulltown. He needed to secure Gulltown. An easy move for a king to make, if unsubtle. _It was what Lord Manderley wanted of Jon, offering his granddaughters the way he did._ “Marissa, this is Sansa Stark. We were betrothed once, but you needn’t be jealous my love. I see she eschews the company of men these days,” he glanced at Brienne. “All the spice you’ll ever need?”

Sansa’s heart nearly stopped, and even as heat flooded her body, she did her best to keep her head cool. As far as accusations went, it was unseemly, but kingship seemed to have done way with whatever Harry had cared about for propriety—at least as regards her. _He feels shamed by you,_ she thought. _You must ease him. Compliment him. Though not now—he’s wanting it now, you must wait until later. And Brienne…_ Well, she would think about why her heart had stopped later.

“My love,” Marissa said at his side, taking his hand. “Let Princess Sansa sit. The journey has been long and I’m sure she is eager to feast.”

“Oh I’m sure she must be. I’ve heard it said that the North has started eating itself alive, and that the King in the North has already had to threaten his bannermen with beheading if he catches them at it.” He lifted a bite of his pie to his lips as Sansa resited narrowing her eyes. _He goads me. It cannot be true,_ she thought angrily. “How terrible that must be. Starvation in winter. And it’s not as if the Starks never knew that winter was coming.”

Sansa inclined her head, and moved to the spot at the end of the table that had clearly been left open for her, seated next to Ser Wallace Waynewood. She watched as Brienne sat down at a table nearby, her eyes on Sansa.

“Was the j-j-j-j-journey hard?” Ser Wallace asked, not unkindly.

“Very,” Sansa replied quietly. “The cold was brutal and the winds were worse.”

“Winter,” murmured Ser Wallace, patting her arm. “Never a g-g-good season.”

Sansa thought again of Harry’s words—that the North was eating itself alive. Surely she would have heard something if it were true. It hadn’t been the case when she’d left Winterfell, after all, and if it _were_ true, the news of it would not have beaten her to the Bloody Gate. Surely it was all just rumors and tall tales from men who did not like the cold or the dark.

Though she would never admit it to Harry—or anyone except maybe Brienne—Sansa had never been gladder of a meal. She ate without abandon, tasting three kinds of meat pies, and eating an apple tart that had been brought out from the kitchens. Ser Wallace was not the best conversation, but he was kind, at least, and that was enough to set her at ease and to plan for Harry.

Harry was far angrieer than she’d expected. _What state did Lord Littlefinger leave his coffers in, I wonder? And what does that mean for his granaries?_

As the feast ended, Harry stood. He walked to the end of the table where Sansa sat and said, “Walk with me. I see no reason to delay our meeting, and I’m sure you see no reason for it either.”

She stood, and saw Brienne rise at once but she shook her head at the knight. _Harry won’t do anything to me,_ she thought. And she wasn’t sure she wanted Brienne to hear anything that fell from Harry’s lips. _Then you would know too much, and I don’t know if I could bear that._ Brienne was too good a person, and had so much faith in Sansa. She did not want that dashed. She wanted to think that she could be the person that Brienne saw her as, and if she saw too much of what Alayne could wreak, she feared that wouldn’t be possible. _But then it won’t matter if my heart stopped,_ she thought as she rose to her feet. For some queer reason, she found she hated that thought.

Harry led her through the castle to a room that she’d once sat in with Petyr, and he threw himself into a chair unceremoniously.

“So you need food, is that it?”

Sansa took a deep breath. “The King in the North has sent me to treat with you about a proper exchange for food, yes.”

Harry was tiling his chair back on too legs, running his hand over his beard, his mouth open in a twisted half-smile.

Then he began to laugh.

“So they are eating one another. It’s true. The valiant North and all that blood in the snow, but there’s not enough food there to survive the rest of the winter, is there?” Sansa waited for him to stop laughing, watched as he let out a positive hoot of laughter. “Come now, Sansa, you must see the great irony in it.”

“There is a great amount of irony in it, your grace,” she replied evenly. “But irony doesn’t fill empty stomachs. And the North is not eating itself.” _Yet._

“No, I don’t suppose it does,” Harry replied, still smiling humorlessly. “Well then. What’s the king offering. He’s not the first to come knocking at my gates asking for food. Your uncle of Tully’s already come ‘round, singing a song of how the Lannisters burned his fields during the harvest. I’d have thought I’d have at least one more king at my gates before you Starks bent your icy knees and realized that pride doesn’t feed people in winter.”

“And what did you sell the food to my uncle Edmure for?” Sansa asked.

“I didn’t. He couldn’t scrape together the coin. Oh, he wept a pretty tale about not wanting to knock on the Lannister’s door, about how his sister Lysa was lady of the Vale for _years_ , but loyalty and blood don’t fill our coffers.”

“What were you charging him?”

Harry was smiling. “More than the North can afford, I surmise.”

“So then why are we even speaking?”

“Because, _Sansa_ ,” Harry said and he was leaning forward. “Your _father_ fucked me. Oh he left me with plenty of food, but not anywhere near enough coin for the winter. I don’t know what he did with it—perhaps _you_ do. Maybe it’s squirreled away in a bank in your name. I can feed my people, yes, but pay my men? Buy more horses after nearly all of them fell fighting in the North? No—I’m quite as coin poor as you are, which is a bad combination, isn’t it. And, to make matters worse, your _husband_ fucked me too. It’s Lannister steel the mountain clans are using. So I want you to look at my face when I say, forever, that you’re likely going to die before you get food out of me, and the whole North too.”


	9. Chapter 9

Arya

After a week on the road, Arya heard the songs of wolves and felt her horse startle beneath her. She dismounted and went to the side of the column and looked to the east. She could see them there against the snow, hundreds of them and at the head.

“Nymeria!” she called and waved and saw the large grey at the head of the pack bound forward even faster. Jon jumped down from his horse as well and a moment later he was calling, “To me, Ghost!”

Nymeria pelted towards Arya and knocked her down into the snow and began licking her face as though she were a pup again, Arya giggling underneath the wolf that was about as big as her horse. She rubbed the wolf’s belly and buried her face in the fur of Nymeria’s neck and hugged her as tightly as she could. _I’ve missed you_ , she thought to her wolf.

The wolf had missed her too—she could tell.

That night, she slept curled up in the warmth of Nymeria’s fur, her body and soul all collected in the heart of the wolf. It was a better sleep than she’d had in months, and when she woke, she woke _warm_ down to her very toes.

The pack ran about them, sniffing the air, barking and yipping. The horses were clearly terrified, and Arya did as much as she could to calm them, but knew it wouldn’t be enough.

“I’d forgotten how many there are,” Jon pointed out.

“How could you have? You dream of Ghost sometimes.”

“Yes, but it’s different seeing it through my own eyes,” he said.

The pack was a swarm across the white snows as they pressed north, and Arya hated to admit that Jon was right. It was different with her own eyes—seeing just how many of them there were. _And that’s after some died or started their own pack._

She reached her hand out to rub Nymeria’s fur. The wolf was running at her side, not wanting to be far from her—which was lucky since Arya didn’t want to be far from her wolf either. “Too long,” she told the wolf. “It’s been too long.”

She saw Jon watching her stroking her wolf with a strange expression on his face. “What?”

“I remember giving her to you,” Jon said quietly. “Do you remember?”

How could she forget? Her brothers had come back from the execution, eyes alight, and Jon had tipped the little wolf into her arms and told her she was hers. _Hers_. Rickon and Sansa had chosen their wolves between them, but Jon had given the little grey in his arms straight to Arya and watched as delight spread over her face. She’d been in love instantly, and still was.

 _Some call her a monster, but she’s always sweet to me,_ Arya thought, running her gloved hand again through Nymeria’s fur. Monsters had never frightened her though. She’d been the Ghost of Harrenhal, had worn the faces of the dead, had run in the skin of her wolf. Some would say she was a monster too. But she wasn’t, and neither was Nymeria.

It felt as though a part of her soul had returned to her. And of course, it had. And the road was easier to a soul so full of her wolf.

Arya had traveled hard roads in her life—but none so hard as the Kingsroad north to Last Hearth. The wind was strong enough to crack your skin and peel it off if you weren’t careful, and for miles and miles—as far as the eye could see—there was nothing but frozen white snow. _Better than bloody snow, I suppose_ , Arya thought. The snow was packed so thick that at times, they passed the tops of trees just poking through as though they were no more than shrubs.

“Last Hearth will be drowned with it,” Arya said.

“Not likely,” Jon said. “It’s surrounded by hills. They’ll have broken the winds. The plains are too flat to have done that, though. Most of this is windblown snow from the mountains, I’d bet,” he said, pointing north.

Arya was a daughter of the north, a Stark of Winterfell, but in that moment she realized she’d seen far less of it than Jon had. She was glad he was there with her. She was glad she was there with him.

The wolves were digging up the frozen remains of wights and chewing through the bones of them.

The men with them did not like that.

“What if they come to like the taste of man and turn on us?” she heard a heavyset warrior with a battleaxe named Darryn ask.

“They have already eaten the flesh of man,” Arya said. “They won’t turn on us. I promise.”

“As you say, Princess,” Darryn replied, but he didn’t look as though he believed her. Even less so when it was her wolf who dove through the snow and began tearing at frozen dead flesh.

“Are you sure it won’t kill them?” Jon asked her, eyeing Nymeria who was eating without abandon. “We don’t know what killed them, or how long they’ve been dead.”

Arya slid into Nymeria’s skin for a moment. The flesh was tasteless—in the best of ways. She’d smelled darkness in it before, but now it just smelled like nothing, just dead meat. “No worse than if they’d stumbled upon a dead man to eat who hadn’t been brought back,” she said. A moment later she heard a crack and saw that Nymeria had snapped a bone with her strong jaw and was chomping at the frozen marrow within it. “I suppose time will tell though.”

The wolves did not sicken from eating the flesh of the dead, and Arya grew relieved. Jon, however, cast a look about the men and said quietly to her, “Best hope that none of these tales spread. It will do nothing to help keep men from eating men if they know the cursed flesh won’t kill them.”

Arya had not thought of that. She’d been too relieved that Nymeria was not hungry, and that her pack could now comfortably find food. “I’m more worried,” she sighed, “That they’ll keep the taste of men in their tongues after winter has ended.”

She did not continue the thought aloud, but saw in Jon’s eyes that he followed her there. It would not be good if, when spring and summer finally came, the wolves attacked farmers in their fields, no longer interested in what game there was in the forests—if game returned to the forests to begin with.

If the days had been slowly lengthening in Winterfell, it did not seem to be the case as they trekked north. They rode mostly in darkness, and in the few hours of daylight that they knew, the sun barely rose over the horizon, as though it were an endless dusk.

Worse was when it stormed. The first snow storm they knew was enough to shake all of them down to their cores. Arya turned her face away from the wind, buried her face in Nymeria’s fur and felt the whole group of them—man, horse, wolves—compress together. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_ , she thought, remembering her father’s words to her when she’d been just a girl. So this was what he’d meant when he’d spoken of wolves. It was the barest minimum. Being out alone in this storm would surely have killed her, but so long as there were a group of them facing the storm, they could manage. And they did.

“I suppose we’d make for poor Starks if we hid in our castle until winter had ended, wouldn’t we?” Jon japed the next time—she did not know whether to call it night or not—that the group stopped by the fire. “Warm and cozy in our Winterfell while our lords might make war with one another.”

“It would certainly be more convenient,” Arya said dryly. She leaned back against her wolf, who was warm enough for ten fires. “Would your grace like his featherbed now?”

Jon laughed. “And I thought that autumn north of the Wall was cold.”

“Did you range often?” Arya had never asked before.

Jon blinked at her. “No,” he said. “Just the once. I rode out as part of the Old Bear’s host, and then continued on with Qhorin Halfhand, who bade me learn the ways of the Free Folk.”

“Did that a little too well, didn’t you?” Arya teased, and Jon gave her a wry smile.

“I had much to learn,” he said simply. “You never realize how green a boy you are until faced with an incontrovertible truth. I knew nothing, but I learned.”

“Learned, and came back to the Wall, and let them all come south,” Arya said. That much she had known. It made more sense now.

“Aye,” he said. “They were the first to face the Others, and living besides. Who are we to say they deserved to die? A convenient human shield for us—when in truth their deaths turn them into a greater weapon.” He rubbed the hand that had burned. “As I tried to tell Cersei Lannister. Anyway,” he shrugged, “It’s done.” He smiled at Arya. “Let’s see if we can hold a tenuous peace now.”

“Peace is easier than war,” Arya said.

“And yet harder,” Jon said with a wry smile. “War is straightforward. You fight and one side may win. Peace is peaceful, but there’s always the threat of war.” He sighed. “The older I get, the more I think we’re all raised wrong. Not,” he added, seeing her expression, “like that. Our father raised us well. But that young men are so readily prepared to fight, and all the best songs are of glorious battles…why aren’t there more songs of kings who died old in their beds and never swung a sword. Why is that not something young men aspire to?”

“You’re just annoyed to be far from your featherbed and your beloved.”

That made him laugh. “Guilty,” he said at last. “I can’t feel my toes.” Arya gave him a look of concern but he shook it off. “I can’t feel my fingers either, but look,” he pulled off his gloves and she saw them, pale and not at all frost-bitten. “My heart doesn’t work the way it should. The knife likely struck one of the compartments—that’s what Sam said. But the magic keeps it pumping—just pumping less well. So less blood, and the magic does the rest. I don’t understand it, but that’s the way of it.”

“Does that mean you’re cold more easily?”

“I don’t feel the cold,” Jon said. “I feel heat, though. Which is probably why I miss my featherbed and my beloved.”

Arya stood, ignoring the look from Nymeria and sat by Jon and Ghost, wrapping her arms around her brother. “I’ll keep you warm,” she whispered to him.

“Ghost does well with that, little sister, but I’ll never push you away.”

She rested her head on his shoulder and stared at the fire. _It was fire that brought him back,_ she thought. _Whatever gods did that, surely they hold as much power as the Old Gods._

The Old Gods, who had Bran locked in their thrall.

Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard had raised their children to keep both faiths—the Old Gods and the New. Sansa knew all the hymns and could cite passages from the Seven Pointed Star. Arya could barely remember them. But she had grown up knowing that there were more gods than just the gods of her father—perhaps that was why she’d believed, allowed herself to participate in those rituals to Him of Many Faces…

_The Red God brought my mother back too._

Her fingers tightened in Jon’s furs, and she looked at Nymeria. Nymeria had been there, and Gendry, and Brienne. They’d all known her, had seen what she’d become. Surely they understood. Gendry hadn’t looked at her differently for so long, and if Brienne hadn’t been horrified, surely….

“I killed my mother,” she whispered to Jon, softly enough that the men would not hear her. They were superstitious enough, it seemed, afraid of the wolves and the winds. Jon tilted his head to look at her ever so slightly.

“She’d been brought back. Like you. But it was different somehow. She was different. Maybe she was dead longer—I don’t know. Or the Red Wedding changed her. She was killing everyone and everything, even the innocents. She called me a liar when I said I was her daughter. Said her children were all dead.” Arya felt the sting of tears in her eyes, felt them freeze on her face. “She’d have kept going. It was the only way to make her stop.” Arya had rolled her mother’s corpse through mud that was crackling with ice, through the sleet towards a little rowboat. She’d sent her to her grave the way the Tullys of Riverrun did—lighting the boat aflame and destroying the body, the evidence of what she’d done. “She wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t. And then maybe she’d know peace because she didn’t know it.” She looked up at Jon. “Why are you the same but she wasn’t?” she asked miserably.

Jon was watching her closely, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “I’m not the same, little sister,” he said quietly. “I try to be. And at times I think I succeed. But you can’t forget what it is like to die. It changes you, whether you want it to or not.”

Arya blinked back tears, not wanting them to freeze on her face the way they had that night in the riverlands. She didn’t look away from Jon, she needed Jon to tell her it was all right. “I’m a kinslayer,” she whispered to Jon.

“No,” he said and his voice, though quiet, was firm. “I can’t say that I was fond of Lady Catelyn, or that she was fond of me, but from what you describe that was not Lady Catelyn. It sounds to me like a mercy, not a murder. She would not have wanted her body used by a soul so twisted.”

It was the word mercy that did it. She’d stuck Needle right through her heart, the way that the Hound had shown her. _The gift of mercy_ , he’d called it. And they’d called her mother Mother Merciless.

She buried her face in Jon’s side, sobbing, and he ran his hand up and down her back. “She would have understood. Your real mother. For true. She was a…a clever woman,” Jon said as Arya shook with sobs.

“I can’t tell Sansa. She’d hate me,” Arya said at last. “I think Bran knows, though. He said something once and it happened near the weirwood at Raventree Hall.”

“Does Bran hate you for it?” Jon asked, then he sighed. “I don’t suppose we can truly know at present, can we?”

“You won’t tell Sansa?” Arya asked him.

“It’s your tale to tell, little sister. If Sansa is to know, it’s from your lips. Besides…” he patted her arm. “I’d be a liar if I said you and I hadn’t always kept secrets from Sansa.”

Arya grinned at him wetly, remembering when he’d given her Needle. … _don’t…tell…Sansa!_

She knew he wouldn’t. She knew he wouldn’t tell anyone, not even Daenerys, and he seemed to tell her everything. She was speaking with Jon her brother, not Jon the king, and Jon her brother loved her more than anything in the world.

She tightened her hold on him, knowing that sometime soon, Jon the king would be back, but for now she let herself be calmed by the brother who had given her Needle, who had always comforted her, even now. He bent his neck and kissed the top of her head.

They sat like that for a long while, staring at the fire until sleep claimed them.

* * *

* * *

 

Daenerys

A fight broke out a week after Jon and Arya had departed. She heard them from Jon’s solar, and at first thought it was training until she heard Rickon shouting at the top of his lungs, “Stop it! STOP IT!”

Daenerys flew to the window and saw the youngest Stark dancing back and forth as five or six men threw punches. _Better punches than steel._

Two of them had long, dark braids.

Daenerys ran for the stairs, brushing past some of the good folk of Winterfell who were all looking at her curiously. They had never seen her run so quickly.

When she reached the courtyard the fighting had slowed. Only two men were fighting now—a Dothraki man and a northman. Other men nursed bruises and bloodied lips, and Rickon was still shouting at both of them. Daenerys saw that both held knives.

“Cease this,” she commanded in the voice that had commanded dragon flames and both men started, leapt apart, and knelt before her. “What is happening,” she demanded angrily. “Why do you break the king’s peace in his own halls?”

No one spoke. “So it was nothing, then? Nothing prompted you to leap at each other like dogs over a scrap of meat?”

“Khaleesi,” the last Dothraki man who had been fighting, Satago, one of her best warriors a tall, strong, brave man who had led a thousand of her screamers against the wights, spoke. He spoke to her in Dothraki, she assumed to tell his tale more smoothly. “This man broke into the stables in the night. He tried to kill a horse. The horse of Zali, who is my daughter, saying that one horse could feed many.”

“Is it not true that the Dothraki eat their horses?” Rickon asked haltingly.

“Not a warhorse like this one,” Satago replied. “Zali’s horse is hers. She is not so old that she should be eaten, and Zali still rides her. The thief did not plan to sacrifice her heart to the Stallion”

Rickon looked at Daenerys. Everyone was looking at Daenerys. She turned to the northman.

“What is your name?” she asked him, speaking once again in the common tongue.

“Garrem, lady, and whatever he said just then was a—”

“You tried to kill one of the horses for eating is what he claimed. Was it true?”

Garrem spat and Satago jerked back, reaching for his knife again and the whole courtyard seemed to shout as he did. “You will not!” Daenerys commanded him and slowly he put his hand back down. She turned again to Garrem. “Was it true?”

“Aye,” he said at last. “It was true. Why is a horse’s life worth more than a man’s? We’re starving.”

“The castle is not starving. The king’s rations—”

“Are so _fucking_ low my belly is barely ever full. That’s starvation.”

“It is not,” and everyone turned. The blacksmith, Gendry, was standing there, hammer in hand, blue eyes brimming with heat. “If you’d ever truly starved, you’d know it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Garrem spat at Gendry. “You get twice the rations everyone else gets because you’re the bloody blacksmith. Or is it because you’re fucking our king’s sister?”

Gendry kicked him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. “Don’t speak like that of her,” he said and his voice cracked like a hammer on steel. “She’s thrice the man you are.”

Daenerys’ eyes flew to Gendry. She knew that he was friends with Arya, but were they lovers? The man had not denied it, but perhaps he knew as well as she did that protestations would be seen as the opposite of denial in this particular case. It would certainly explain at least partially Arya’s resistance to marrying. She did not dare look at Rickon, lest it be seen as confirmation one way or another.

Silence filled the courtyard. Everyone’s eyes were darting between Gendry—taller than anyone there now that Brienne of Tarth had gone south—and Garrem, on the ground clutching his chest, wheezing and coughing.

“The horse was not yours to kill and eat,” Daenerys said at last and everyone turned to look at her. “Nor even the king’s. The horse was mine.” Everyone glanced around, uneasily. “A horse of my khalasar is my horse. I did not give you permission to touch it, let alone kill it.”

“Lady,” Garrem said nervously, “I—” Daenerys raised a hand to cut him off and he began to beg. “Please, lady, don’t burn me. Don’t burn me.”

She blinked, and looked about. _Do they think I will burn them?_ Her dragons had roasted many men who had defied her, but they had all been her enemies, not Jon’s people. There was something very different about a dragon breathing death than tying a man to a pyre to burn him. Wasn’t there?

She turned to Rickon. “What is the punishment for poaching in the north?” she asked him.

She saw at once from the way his blue eyes widened that Rickon did not know.  He had been too young when Lord Eddard still ruled in Winterfell.

“A hand,” came a voice that she had not expected. She turned and saw Missandei standing behind her, clutching her fur cloak tightly about her. She hadn’t heard her friend following her. “A poacher lost a hand under Lord Eddard.”

Daenerys glanced at Rickon, who said, “I think that’s right.”  

“It is,” came a cry from someone in the crowd that Daenerys could not see.

“Please, Lady, I need my hand! It’s not a creature of the hunt, I didn’t try to poach from the king’s woods!” Garrem was yelling wildly.

“No, you tried to kill a war horse. Infinitely more valuable than any game you might find in the snow,” Daenerys said coolly. But she paused. “Winter is hard. And I am not unsympathetic to your hunger, though there is little I can do to alleviate it at present. You will need a hand to get through winter, as you say. I shall take only some fingers,” she said, and she looked at Rickon.

 _Jon would have me do it, or Rickon,_ she thought. Jon and Arya both were fierce about it: the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword _._ It was something they had learned from Eddard Stark. But Daenerys had never wielded a sword—the only weapon she’d ever needed had been breathed out of Drogon’s lungs. And Rickon standing before her was so small, only a boy of twelve. _Older than when Arya had to start killing for her life,_ she thought, _but that’s no reason to make him do it._

She looked about. _If I have a member of my khalasar do it, it will be wrong. It will set bad blood between them._

Her eyes fell on Gendry, his blue eyes still angry. “Do you have a weapon that would serve?” she asked him.

Gendry grunted and returned to the forge. A moment later he came out with a short axe. There was still anger brimming in his eyes, Daenerys suspected from Garrem’s comments about Arya. She nodded to him and he turned to Garrem.

“It’ll be easier for you if you don’t struggle,” Gendry said and there was something forboding in the quiet of his voice.

And Garrem broke. He began to cry. He held out a hand and someone had found a block and with a firm stroke and a crunch, Gendry took his index and middle finger from his hand. “Maester,” he called, “He’ll need stitching.” He turned away from Garrem without another word and returned to his forge.

“The horses are my horses,” Daenerys said to the gathered crowd. “And thus will one day be your queen’s horses. Remember that.” To her Dothraki, she said in their tongue, “Do not bait them. This was no victory.” _They hate the cannibalism,_ she thought. _Quite as much as I do._

But she didn’t know what to do to fix any of it. There was no food, and the people from Hornwood had already done the deed. There was no pretending otherwise. _I must be careful, or else it will be more than just a brawl in the courtyard._

She followed Gendry to the forge. He was cleaning the blood from the axe. “Thank you,” she said to him. “I…I probably should have done it myself?”

Gendry glanced at her. “Have you ever swung an axe?”

“No,” she said.

“Or a sword?”

She shook her head.

“Then it’s for the best,” Gendry said. “The only thing worse than that would have been if you’d botched the thing.”

“I hope you’re right,” Daenerys said quietly. She’d never really exchanged words with Arya’s friend. Jon had. Jon and Arya said he was a knight as well. “In any case, you have my thanks, ser.”

Gendry seemed to relax at that. He looked down at his hands, then back at Daenerys.

She wanted to ask him about Arya, whether it was true, whether they were in love, but she didn’t know how. He wasn’t the sort of man who seemed open for such questions. _Of course, now the rumors will be stirring through Winterfell—mayhaps even more than they were before._ It would only make Jon’s efforts to find Arya a husband that much more difficult, if there were rumors that she was bedding down with a bastard blacksmith knight.

But given that Arya did not wish to marry, perhaps that was, as Gendry had said, “for the best.”

She left him there, returning towards the keep. She passed Rickon and Grey Worm, always training with their spears and paused. Rickon came over to her.

“Was that well done?” she asked him in Dothraki.

Rickon chewed his lip. “I think so. You were right—they’re your horses and he was trying to poach them. And you were merciful I think, while still being hard.”

“We must stop other fights from breaking out. And yet men grow more agitated with hunger.”

Rickon was still frowning, but he nodded fervently. “We’ll think of something,” he said. “I wish…” his voice trailed away and Daenerys waited. He switched to the Common Tongue. She’d not even noticed that he’d been speaking Dothraki, so fluidly had he spoken. She was proud. “I wish that more of them trained together, or befriended one another. But they steer clear of one another. The northmen and the Dothraki.”

Daenerys grimaced. “Yes, I noticed that too. If it were summer, I’d suggest a tourney. Peaceful competition might do wonders to establish common ground, but we haven’t the food or money for it.”

Rickon nodded. “Something for summer, I guess.”

“Something for summer,” Daenerys agreed. She ruffled his hair and he made a face at her.

“My queen,” Missandei called behind her and she turned just in time to see a retinue of horses come through the gates. She recognized the badge on their cloaks—a white fist on red—but could not remember which of the northern houses it represented.

Rickon did, though and he stepped forward. “My lady of Glover,” he said bowing to the youngests of the riders. She was so swaddled in furs that Daenerys had not recognized that she was a girl at all. “Winterfell welcomes you.”

The girl descended. She looked about Rickon’s age, though she already stood taller than he did. Girls grew faster than boys, though—everyone knew that. “My prince,” she said, curtseying stiffly. “I thank you for the invitation to Winterfell.”

“Have you met our queen to be?” Rickon asked, and Daenerys stepped forward. _He is charming,_ she thought. Hard to believe that he was the same boy who’d sobbed to learn his brother and sisters would be leaving him and had stormed from the table. _A boy,_ she reminded herself.

“I have not had that honor,” the girl said. “I am Erena Glover, my lady.”

“It is a pleasure, Lady Erena,” Daenerys replied and both of them dipped into curtseys again. “But come inside, I’m sure you are tired from your journey. We shall see rooms prepared for you, as well as a hot bath.”

“Thank you, my lady,” little Erena said. “I hope you will accept the following tokens of gratitude for your hospitality,” she said and she turned and waved at two of the riders who were with her. Only then did Daenerys note the sledge that they had with them, stacked with frozen meat. “We happened upon a herd of elk in the Wolfswood just as we were leaving the deepwood and thought it foolish to waste such an opportunity.”

“We are most grateful for it,” Daenerys said. “Winterfell will feast tonight. And what remains will be sent down to the Hornwood camp.”

Erena looked delighted. She cast a glance at Rickon, who was nodding and smiling. She gave him a significant glance and a look of startled understanding crossed his face. “My lady, I shall show you to your rooms,” he said, offering his arm to little furred Erena Glover.

Daenerys watched them go, then looked about the courtyard. Men were training again, and she had a thought. She went to the man who was instructing the boys and girls of the castle in archery, a man named Robert.

“A word,” she asked him, and he came over to him at once. “What are your thoughts,” she asked quietly, “of my sending some of my Dotrhaki boys to learn from you. They are used to double curved bows, and it would do them well to learn the long bow.”

Robert bowed, and said, “If my lady wishes it, I shall see it done. May well learn something myself. I’ve never used a double curved bow.”

She nodded, and smiled. It wouldn’t change everything, but it would be a start. And she couldn’t help but feel a little optimistic as she knew that the whole castle would feast on elk that night at dinner.

“My lady,” Maester Wolkan said, coming up behind her. “A raven, from Casterly Rock.” He handed the tight little scroll to her, and Daenerys broke the seal on it, reading Tyrion’s crisp note quickly. His terms seemed fair enough, but she grimaced. Of course they would arrive while Jon was away. And while she was quite sure that Jon trusted her with the stewardship of the north, with the keeping of Winterfell, somehow she suspected that negotiating a loan with the King of the Rock without him…

_His lords will think I overstep. What does it matter if I’m to be their queen, and am the blood of the dragon beside?_


	10. Chapter 10

Brienne

“You are more stubborn than I thought you would be, my lady,” King Harrold told Sansa when he found her seated by the fire in the great hall. She was sewing, and looked up at him benignly as he stood looming over her. “Especially when I have already set my price.”

They had been at the Bloody Gate for almost a week, and as far as Brienne could tell, this was only the second time that King Harrold had spoken with Sansa. Brienne had asked her if she needed any help, if Brienne could do anything to assist her, but Sansa had shaken her head. “ _No, I must catch him myself_ ,” she had said. “ _Harry likes getting what he wants, and he wants to break me. So he shall keep trying. And he shall fail_ ,” she added, with a quick smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“ _Well…_ ” Brienne had replied slowly. “ _If there is anything at all…_ ”

“ _Just be your stalwart self_ ,” Sansa had said, and in a voice that Brienne could never— _would_ never refuse. “ _And I swear, if I have need, you will know_.”

“Did you?” Sansa asked. “As I recall you assumed that there was no way the North could meet your price and so didn’t state it outright, which meant that I could not confirm or deny your assertion.” She put her sewing down and looked at him beadily. “And, I assume, you want little and less to do with alternative methods of payment. Perhaps unwinding some of the trickery Lord Baelish did in your books.”

“As if I trust you not to make them all the more tricky out of spite,” he said bitterly.

“If one of us is behaving spitefully, I would not necessarily say that it is I,” Sansa replied evenly. “But you are a king, and you know what is best.” She stuck her needle through the cloth in her hands.

“I wouldn’t call the man who may be your kingdom’s salvation spiteful, were I you,” Harry said.

“Then what should I call your grace?” Her voice was so very light, and it sounded almost as though she were playing a game.

“You sound like him, you know?”

“Like who?”

“Lord Littlefinger.”

Sansa heaved a heavy sigh. “I spent a good deal of time in his presence. Sometimes we adopt mannerisms of those who guide us through life, and as you enjoy reminding me so, he had me call him father for a time. Better Lord Baelish than Queen Cersei, wouldn’t you agree? Or else the Bloody Gate might get a case of wildfire in winter.” Her eyes twinkled and Brienne bit back a gasp. It was a daring thing to say, a clever little threat, for everyone knew what Queen Cersei had wrought in King’s Landing. Surely Sansa would never do such evil as Queen Cersei, not to all the innocent people who lived here.

But of course she wouldn’t.

That was precisely what she was saying. A daring clever move.

 _She’s cleverer than you thrice over, wench,_ Ser Jaime’s voice rang in her head. _And you think she will ever see you as more than a stalwart shield?_ Ser Jaime had been so kind to her before he had died, his cutting words growing softer and a fierce protectiveness taking them over. It felt wrong to remember him harshly now. Why would she do that?

“You are,” King Harrold spat, “ever the heinous bitch, Sansa Stark.”

Without even thinking, Brienne stood, her hand on her sword. “Your grace,” she said loudly. “You would do well to apologize.”

“That’s not necessary, Brienne,” Sansa said even as Harrold’s eyes dropped to Brienne’s sword, and the rest of the hall hushed, trying to overhear what was being said now. He had been a fine knight, she’d heard. He’d won at tourneys and had ridden valiantly against the night. But she doubted very much he could best her with Oathkeeper in hand. No one had ever been able to withstand her, not Ser Jaime, not the Hound—and she doubted very much that even at his best, Harrold Arryn was half so good as either of them. And he would only be defending himself—Brienne would be defending Sansa. “I rather suspect a case of sword through the bowels might not help our case with King Harrold.”

King Harrold’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, Sansa,” he said though it was clear from his tone that he did not mean it. “I spoke in wrath.”

“Best not let it own you,” Sansa said, rising and patting his arm. “It ruled King Joffrey, after all. By your leave.” She did not wait for him to give it before departing and Brienne gave him a black look before following Sansa.

When they reached the second floor, Sansa took her arm and they slowed. “That,” she said, “was marvelously done. I thank you.” She smiled up at Brienne and reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it. She did not let it go, and Brienne, fool that she was, did not want her to.

“He insulted your honor. I would not stand for it,” Brienne said, and Sansa’s gaze ducked slightly beneath her lashes.

“I know. And it means the world. But more importantly, it means that King Harrold now fears he is being seen as unreasonable before the court, that he might leave precious Ned’s domain to starve out of spite alone.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed Brienne’s cheek and Brienne’s face practically burst into flame so quickly did she flush from the touch of Sansa’s lips. “I couldn’t have planned it better, and I am grateful.”

She opened the door and gestured Brienne inside. “Is it all a game?” Brienne asked her, and a flicker of sadness crossed Sansa’s face.

“For some, it always is. And the only way to get things done is to play it,” she said. “And I learned from a master.” She sounded bitter. She kicked off her shoes and threw herself down on the bed, wiggling her toes through the furs. “I miss the North,” she said sadly. “There aren’t games like this in the North. Maybe there will be, one day, when we’ve ruled in our own name for centuries, but for now…” She stared at the ceiling. Then she let out a sigh. “For now everything is as it seems to be, and how wildly refreshing it is.”

Brienne frowned. “You seemed to enjoy the game,” she said quietly. Perhaps this was what Sansa had meant on the ship when she had said that she would seem different.

“Must one enjoy something one is good at?” she asked wearily. “I am good at it, I think. Good enough, at least. Better than Harry for certain. And I suppose that gives me pleasure, for I ever endeavor to be good at anything I set myself to. But I don’t know that I enjoy it.” She looked bleak for a moment. “It’s all lies, forever and ever, after all.” She gave Brienne a quick smile. “The truth is harder but…but it is the truth.” There was a weight to her words that Brienne didn’t fully understand, as though Sansa were trying to convince herself of something.

“My lady?”

But Sansa did not answer the unasked question. Instead she sat up, still wriggling her toes through the furs. She looked at Brienne, and her eyes were clouded with thoughts that Brienne couldn’t understand. _She wears mask after mask,_ Brienne thought. _She’s had to._

_She shouldn’t have to for me, though. I would never betray her, no matter what was done._

She knew that to be true, for how could it not be?

She thought of Arya, and of the revenant she would not call Lady Catelyn after what happened at Riverrun for Lady Catelyn would never have done that, and how empty Arya’s face had been when the thing was done. _That is not what Arya is, no more than whatever Sansa has done is what she is._

“I hope you know,” Brienne said quietly. “That you can trust me with anything.”

Sansa’s eyes were unfathomable. When she spoke, her voice was small. “I know,” she whispered. She smiled, wryly. “It’s unsettling. Lord Baelish always said there was nothing so foolish as a truly honest person, but I don’t know if that’s the truth. I always wished that people were honest with me—and they never were.”

“I always will be,” Brienne promised.

Sansa smiled at her, her blue eyes sparkling in the firelight. “I know. It’s why I like you so, ser knight.”

For a wild moment, Brienne wondered what would happen if she kissed Sansa—not on the cheek as Sansa had done in the hallway when she’d held Brienne’s hand, but on her beautiful lips. That’s what knights did, wasn’t it, protect and love their ladies? But it was a stupid thought, by far the stupidest thought she’d had in a while.

She stood, and bade Sansa a good afternoon, and said she would not impose upon her any longer, and was relieved when Sansa waved her away. She shut the door behind her on Lady Sansa’s sparkling blue eyes and her pretty red lips.

But Brienne did not go to her own rooms, for she knew that if she went to lie down, the thought would come back to her. Instead, she went and found her furs, then went back downstairs and out into the courtyard where some of the young men of the Vale were training with swords as once she’d trained at Evenfall.

She strolled around the courtyard, watching as the boys practiced parries and striking forward. There weren’t smiles and laughter here in the dark of the falling evening. She heard chattering teeth, and saw the puffy white clouds of the boys’ panting and knew they would be drilled until the master at arms was done with them.

Round and round she circled until she passed the stables and stepped inside, a way to keep the icy mountain winds at bay.

The stables were mostly empty. She frowned. That was odd. Had King Harrold sent his riders out into the Vale? There should be more than just the horses that she and Sansa had ridden up through the mountains and some small others. There should be hundreds of them in the great wide stables, blanketed and fed with the autumnal abundance that King Harrold boasted of.

“What happened to them?” she asked, and to her response the stables answered.

“The war happened.” The speaker was a woman, tall with dark hair and a square chin. In the torchlight of the stables, Brienne could see blue eyes and thought she looked, oddly like Gendry. _Like Renly. Like Robert._

Robert had lived here in his youth—he had to be the girl’s father.

“They rode out to face the others. Not many of them came back,” she said quietly. “It’s a good thing the mountains are so high. We’ve fewer knights than we used to.” She looked sad.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Brienne said. “The valiance and chivalry of the Vale was…” was what? She did not know. “I’m Brienne of Tarth.”

“Mya Stone,” Mya said. “You’re traveling with Sansa.”

“I am,” Brienne said.

“Is she happy?” Mya asked. “We were friends once.”

“I didn’t know,” Brienne responded and Mya nodded. Sansa had not mentioned the bastard girl—had not mentioned having friends here at all. It warmed her heart to know that there were people here who cared about her as more than just another one of Littlefinger’s lies.

“She holds her heart close,” Mya shrugged. “I always assumed it was because of the lie, but mayhaps that’s just how she is. She shows people what they wish to see. It makes it harder to see what she truly is. I didn’t understand that when I knew her, but I think I do now, anyway.”

“It has a ring of truth to it,” Brienne said slowly. Even before she’d ever met Sansa, Lady Catelyn had told her that Sansa was ever the gracious lady. Was that what she’d been showing, even to her mother? _All lies, forever and ever,_ she’d said. What was the truth of her?

Mya shrugged again and looked out through the empty stables. “I should be grateful, I suppose. With so many empty stalls, Randa lets me stable my mules here now. They’ve never known a house so fine.” Mya paused. “If it… if it ever comes up, don’t mention to Randa that I asked after Sansa. She’ll be wroth. They did not part on good terms, and Randa’s like a sister to me and I wouldn’t want to hurt her.”

“I understand,” Brienne said.

“Keep her safe.” And Mya went off.

 _I will,_ Brienne thought. _I will._

* * *

* * *

 

Gendry

Gendry saved some of the elk feast for Marya and her girls, who came round two days later. The food had been so plentiful the night of the feast that no one had given him a second thought as he’d stowed a plate on the bench beside him and then brought it back to pack in snow and ice in the forge.

The delight on their faces as they ate the meat alongside the black bread they’d brought for lunch was enough to prove to him that he’d chosen properly. _Is this what it feels like to be a lord?_ He wondered, watching as Maggy and Nora chewed giddily, _to not be worried about recompense for something that’s unfair?_

Daenerys Targaryen and Rickon Stark had made it clear that no one was to take more than their fill of the meat, so that what remained could be brought out to the winter town and those who starved. But Gendry hadn’t feared their wrath at all. _I am untouchable,_ he thought. Either as the much needed smith, or a knight, or as—apparently—Arya’s lover.

He couldn’t have kicked that man hard enough in the chest, but ever since the words had fallen from his lips he noticed the way some looked at him. Some were approving. Arya was well loved in Winterfell, and so any man she chose had to be a worthy man—and Gendry had proven his worth time and time again, first with his war hammer and then with his smithing. “ _He’s King Robert’s son too. Old Ned would smile at that,_ ” he’d overheard one man say when he thought Gendry couldn’t hear. It was the only time Gendry hadn’t been angry at the connection.

Others, though… he could read distaste on their face well enough, whether because they thought he was unworthy or because they thought he besmirched her, it made no matter.

It made no matter most of all because none of it was true. He’d never touched her—no more than was seemly, in any case. And any tales that caught his ears now that he chose to listen about how someone had stumbled upon them kissing behind the stables, how his hand had been up her skirts (Arya never wore skirts, but the teller of that tale didn’t seem to care), how they’d been caught at it in the forge with his cock in her mouth…they were tales.

Tales that Gendry wished never entered his mind, because when they did, he quite found he liked them, god help him.

“It is too good of you,” Marya said quietly to him as she watched her girls eat, joy burning in their sunken eyes. Nora had grown since he had last seen her, he thought. Maggy was still too thin.

“Is it hard to find food in the town?” Gendry asked quietly, knowing the answer.

Marya inhaled slowly. “More and more,” she said. She looked very thin, Gendry noticed. He hadn’t noticed before but her skin hung loose on her face. “There are rations from some of the townsman. The head of the winter town says he cannot provide the townsfolk with more than what the castle provides, but the castle rations are low already and they go to an individual. The rations in the town go per family.”

“That’s not nearly enough food,” Gendry said, and Marya grimaced.

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed. “The head man says it is what it must be to get us through the winter.”

“You’ll starve before you see spring,” Gendry said gloomily.

His thoughts were back on Garrem’s words. _He gets twice as much as the rest of us._ Was that the truth? He’d always assumed it was because the cook liked him, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if Arya had seen to it that he was fed well. Or, even, that Jon might have done it to keep him happy smithing. He looked at Marya’s two girls. They were both small, and ragged, and in them both he saw Arya as he’d first known them, and later the Heddle sisters who he’d kept as safe as he could.

“Come to the castle more,” he said quietly. “I’ll give you what I can.”

Marya shook her head. “You’ve already done plenty for us.”

“Do it for your girls then. Mayhaps we can find them some work in the castle. Serving girls, or something.”

“There’s not enough food in the larders of Winterfell already as is,” Marya said.

“So it turns into a race,” Gendry retorted. “Who dies the quickest. Who starves the fastest. Which of your girls do you think it’ll be?”

Marya glared at him. “I should slap you.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Gendry muttered. “I’d sooner share my food with you anyway. You do enough work here as is—why not split my ration? You’re entitled to it.”

“I’m not, ser,” Marya said quietly and Gendry’s hand tightened on the workbench.

“I’m not a highborn,” he said. “I’m from Fleabottom.”

“And a knight, and a darling in the eyes of our princess. You’ve risen.”

Gendry’s nostrils flared. “But not on your backs I haven’t,” he said. “I don’t want to watch you starve. I don’t have any family to share my food with so I might as well share with you. Pride won’t fill your belly.”

Marya looked down at her hands. “That’s what my Tom would have said. Prideful he called me. Wilfull.”

“A trait you northerners have in abundance.”

She gave him a look, then laughed. “Then where’d you get it?”

Gendry snorted and looked at the girls. They were now sitting on the ground, sorting through loose bits of ringmail. It must have come from the south, because all northern ringmail was lined with leather, more an additional layer of warmth than the main armoring. Marya had set them both to seeing what scraps they could find to put over leather.

“And what would the lady say if she knew you were sharing your rations with a villager?”

“Arya would hit me for not having done it sooner,” he said, knowing it to be true.

Marya gave him a look. “I meant the Lady Daenerys. She is in charge, I hear now.”

Gendry did not know. He had noticed the way Daenerys Targaryen had looked at him after Garrem’s words—curiosity, bemusement. He wasn’t afraid of her, he found, but—more importantly—didn’t think she’d punish him. He suspected—he _knew_ —that she didn’t know what he meant to Arya, and she wouldn’t touch him so long as Arya was gone. “I suspect so long as she never finds out, we won’t have to worry about that,” he said. “So don’t you go spreading the word.”

“I won’t. And I’ll make sure my girls don’t either.”

But she didn’t look like she was done, and Gendry rolled his eyes. “Yes?”

“The princess,” Marya said delicately. “She comes round often. I hadn’t thought to ask, but…”

“Rumors are rumors,” Gendry said dully.

“There were rumors about me and my Tom, but they held a kernel of truth to them.”

“If the _princess_ wanted me like that, do you think she’d bother keeping it a secret?”

“So as not to…put her brother in an uncomfortable position, I think she might.”

That was true enough. Especially given Jon Snow’s plan that she wed a northerner. How upset she’d been by that. Had there been more to her upset when she’d come to him than just pain at Jon’s words? Had there been something for Gendry, too?

He’d never know.

He would never ask her.

“You swing like a man angry,” Hliziffo told him when he disarmed Gendry for the third time as the sun was setting.

Gendry wiped sweat from his brow, but didn’t respond. “Anger is good,” Hliziffo said. “But calm is better. Anger can blind you if too hot. Good for hammer. Not for arakh.”

He handed Gendry the arakh he’d just yanked away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several of the northmen giving him a look. One of them bent to whisper to another. He did not recognize them, but from the gesture he could guess that they were talking about Garrem. Gendry had cut off his fingers, and it had been Hliziffo who had accused him.

They probably thought he was turning into a Dothraki savage.

 _Well fuck them too,_ Gendry thought angrily. He lunged for Hliziffo, who dodged his swing easily. “Too angry,” Hliziffo said again, then he paused to consider. “Or perhaps…” he made a lewd gesture. “How you say?”

Gendry narrowed his eyes and Hliziffo laughed a deep belly laugh. “No woman? Must be many who want a great bull like you. Or are you smaller than you seem?” He laughed again. Gendry swung at him again and Hliziffo parried easily, still laughing.

“Perhaps it is what I say,” he continued. “Or both. Anger because no woman.”

“I don’t need a woman,” Gendry snapped, swinging again.

“You have one then? Perhaps the one you trained with. Ahh yes. That must be it. Hliziffo has heard—”

But what Hliziffo had heard Gendry never found out because with his next swing he brought his arakh to Hliziffo’s throat and the words turned into a smile. “Ahhh. You see? Calm.”

That was a word for it, Gendry thought as he bunked down that night after dinner, half his plate hidden in an ice cache in the forge to give to Marya on the morrow. Calm. He could be calm. He was always the steady one when he could be. It made things easier.

But calm enough to defeat Arya if they sparred?

Probably not. It was a sweet thought, an impressed look in her grey eyes as he held a blade to her throat. A surprised smile, as he lowered the blade. He could never hurt her, would never threaten her even a little bit for longer than he had to to prove he’d won. In his mind’s eye, her gaze dropped to his lips, and when she looked back at him, there was longing there.

He rolled over in his bed, doing his best to ignore the way he was half hard. She was off with her brother.

She probably wasn’t even thinking of him.

* * *

* * *

 

Jon

Across the white field, Jon saw banners—red ones, with white chains on them. Smalljon had sent his men to greet their party, and it wasn’t long before they were passing through the gates of Last Hearth.

“Your grace,” Smalljon Umber said extending his arms and embracing Jon like a brother. “Good of you to come north.”

“I wish under better circumstances,” Jon said seriously, and Smalljon’s smile faded slightly. “Are they coming?”

“They arrived yesterday,” Smalljon said. “They are the Giant’s Tower. You shall be in the Chain Hall. And Princess, it is good to see you as well.” He gave Arya a winning smile. For a moment, Jon thought his little sister would roll her eyes. She knew as well as he did that Smalljon Umber was as of yet unwed, and might have even known that he’d written Jon, too, asking of Jon’s plans for his sisters. But she didn’t. She simply inclined her head to him politely and asked after his sisters.

“They are well, thank the gods,” he said. “I had thought perhaps you would have passed little Lyanna on your way north. She was going south to Winterfell. We had thought perhaps that she might wait to ride with your grace, but she was eager to go and meet Prince Rickon.” He winked at Jon.

“We must have just missed her,” Arya said. “Perhaps she stopped at a holdfast we did not.”

“Ah. More’s the pity,” Smalljon said. “Well, this way. I’ll show you to your rooms, and your men and horses will be tended to.”

They passed through the courtyard and Jon caught a flicker of movement in one of the tower windows overhead. He glanced up and saw Lady Alys, standing by the window. He raised a hand in greeting, and smiled to her as well. She curtseyed.

The chambers that the Smalljon had prepared for him were lavish, and there was a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. More importantly, there was a bathtub, full of steaming water that Jon climbed into just as soon as he’d stripped out of his clothes. He settled into the steaming water and closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander for just a moment.

Umber and Karstark had been neighbors for centuries—so long that the Karstarks had been the Karhold Starks when it had begun. Umber and Karstark had wed multiple times throughout the years, perhaps as recently as two generations before. Jon couldn’t quite remember. He should have looked it up before he left Winterfell. Perhaps Arya would remember. Whatever was leading to the conflict between them…it was likely recent, and Jon could take an educated guess as to what it was.

 _Damn them all,_ he thought, not for the first time. _Stubborn, frozen fools._ He remembered Daenerys saying something similar when speaking of her fears that the Dothraki would not be readily accepted by the northmen. She’d been right about that, at least. She’d yet to show a complete understanding of northern politics, but the northerner’s inability to accept anything that hadn’t been the way they’d done it for eight thousand years? That she had understood instantly.

He was glad that Alys had come and wondered if she’d come on her own, or if Sigorn had ridden with her.

Jon ducked down under the water, letting it soak his hair, then he reached for the bar of soap to scrub his scalp.

He missed Daenerys. On the road it had been easier to put her from his mind, and she had drifted into his thoughts mostly when he’d been trying to slee. But here, in a bathtub, washing his hair? She’d always liked washing his hair. He’d found it oddly endearing, the way she’d enjoyed massaging his scalp—relaxing, and enjoyable not least because frequently it meant his face in her breasts. She didn’t let him wash her hair—he’d tried once, but she’d not been satisfied with the results and mocked him gently for it sometimes as he watched her wash her own silvery locks. How he loved her hair, the color of it, the softness of it, the silkiness of it between his fingers… The tub felt oddly empty without her—even though she had never been to Last Hearth.

 _Is this the first time we’ve been apart?_ War could not have counted—there was too much fear then. Jon had no fear for his safety or for hers now. Was this what his father had felt whenever he’d left his lady wife behind in Winterfell? It felt odd, lonely, but not a permanent loneliness.

He did his best to put her from his mind as he rose from the water and toweled himself dry, and put on fresh clothes that didn’t have the stink of travel sweat. He examined himself in the glass in his fine silver and black velvets. _Do I look a king?_ he wondered. He looked a fool, he thought, and could imagine Pyp mocking him for it. _Lord Snow trying to dress the part._ He fiddled with one of the buttons as though he were a child, then grabbed his furs, donned them, and stepped out into the castle.

Last Hearth had great chimneys throughout, that were loaded with wood and burned night and day. This was a good thing, for the castle was not as warm as Winterfell without its hot spring water flowing through the castle walls. He found that even in his furs, he felt a slight chill—which meant it must truly be cold, because the cold didn’t affect him as it had when he’d been a boy with a fully functioning heart. It did not bother him, though. It reminded him of the Wall, and he took comfort in that.

He entered the main hall of the castle and found Lady Alys and Sigorn of Thenn sitting at the table. “Your grace,” Alys said at once, standing and Jon felt a delighted sound escape his lips at the sight of her swollen belly.

“My congratulations to you, my lady,” he said, beaming at the pair of them.

“Thank you, your grace,” Alys smiled. Her husband took her hand and nodded to Jon with warm eyes.

“And when do you expect your child?”

“In four months if the gods are good,” Alys replied. “The maester at Karhold thought it foolish of me to come in my condition, but I was not to be stopped.”

“Nothing daunts you, my lady,” Jon agreed. He looked about the hall. There was no sign of Smalljon yet. “Our host is not present?”

“The host does not enjoy my company,” Sigorn said. His grasp of the common tongue was much stronger now than it had been when Jon had last spoken with him, though he still had a thick accent. “I do not understand why not. Am I not a genial man?” But the look he gave Jon was one of a man who knew _exactly_ why it was that Smalljon did not spend more time with Sigorn of Thenn than he could help.

“I’m sure he’ll be along soon,” Alys said. “It would not do to keep the king waiting.”

Almost as soon as the words had fallen from her lips, Smalljon entered, arm in arm with Arya. He was telling her of summers at Last Hearth, and the taste of pine mead that his smallfolk made. “Sweet, like you couldn’t even imagine. If there were any barrels to be had, I’d serve it tonight, princess, but we may have had the last of it in celebration of the end of the war.”

“A pity,” Arya said, smiling up at him. The Smalljon was not a small man as his name implied. He was taller even than Brienne of Tarth, Jon would reckon, and practically dwarfed Arya as he led her to the table—and Arya herself was not particularly short.

“Arya,” Jon said, “I believe you have met Sigorn of Thenn, but perhaps not the Lady Alys Karstark.”

“My lady, I’ve not had the pleasure,” Arya said at once, smiling and bowing slightly. Alys curtseyed to her. “Though Jon has told me of you, of course, and your escape through the snow on horseback. A valiant journey.”

Alys flushed, pleased with herself. “And one which has ultimately afforded me great happiness,” Alys said, raising Sigorn’s hand to her lips and kissing it.

Everyone was still standing, and Jon took his seat without waiting for invitation from Smalljon, watching as they all took note and sat as well.

Dinner was not a comfortable affair, but at least it was a polite one. No one seemed to wish to bring up why Jon had come north, which after dinner, Arya was clearly frustrated by.

“They all sat there, so congenial,” she said to Jon. She was sitting on the window seat in his room, still too agitated to sleep. “It was as if nothing was wrong at all.”

“Let them have an evening of congeniality. It will make them perhaps more able to listen to one another on the morrow.”

Arya gave him a look. “I know,” she sighed. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have grated me so much if Smalljon weren’t trying to show me how mature he is.”

“You make him sound like a child—he’s older than you.”

“Isn’t he a child? Aren’t we all children sometimes? He kept sitting there, making comments about how good at listening he is, and how he hopes that all dinners will be like this in the future—as though he’s not part of the tension.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Jon said.

“We know he’s preparing men to march on Karhold.”

“Just as we know that Karhold is arming itself. We must let them speak in their own words with the others present. That’s the only way we’ll discover the truth and set everything to right. Don’t discount Smalljon just because you do not wish to marry him.”

Arya fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve, pulling a loose thread.

“Would you have preferred knives out over dinner?” Jon asked, bemused.

“No,” Arya grumbled. “But I hate them pretending they like one another when they’ve got men prepared to fight. Those men just had to fight for their lives and deserve as much rest as winter will allow them.”

“You have a big heart, little sister,” Jon said quietly. “We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough.”

It was not long before Arya went to bed, and Jon lay down beneath the furs and closed his eyes. The bed was cold, and he wished Daenerys were there with him. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillows, pretending they were her neck and did his best to sleep, even though the only sounds in the room were the crackling flame of the fire and the sound of his solitary breath.

He awoke to the sound of a serving girl scraping the hearth.

“Is it morning?”

“Morning enough,” she said. “The kitchens are awake, and Lord Umber will await your leisure below.”

“Thank you,” Jon said. He got up, dressed again, and went to the window. It was still pitch black outside, but he was used to waking before light of day. But at least at Winterfell, the skies were nearly grey in the morning. _Better than nothing,_ he thought. If he were still on the Wall, it would be darker still. He could practically hear Edd moaning about it.

This time when he reached the main hall for breakfast, he found Smalljon there, but not Alys and Sigorn. There was also no sign of Arya.

“Tell it true,” Jon said before Smalljon opened his mouth. “What is going on? Karstark and Umber have had little strife in thousands of years.”

“You’ll have to ask them,” Smalljon said stubbornly. “I’ve done nothing beyond what is expected to protect my lands and my people from incursions.”

Jon raised his eyebrows. “If there’s one thing I intend to do, it’s to ask them, Jon. But I ask you first.”

But before Smalljon could open his mouth, Arya arrived, this time with her arm looped through Alys Karstark’s while Sigorn of Thenn followed them.

Jon saw Smalljon’s eyes harden, and he sighed internally. Leave it to Arya to make an entrance that sent all sorts of different messages.

When Alys was seated comfortably in her seat and the egg on the table in front of her was properly salted, Jon tried again.

“What’s the meaning of all this,” he said. “It’s the middle of the darkest winter we’ve had in thousands of years, there’s not nearly enough food in the north, and now Umber and Karstark are at one another’s throats. We just won a damn war together. What is happening?”

All three of them sat in silence. Arya took a bite of her egg, then rolled her eyes at Jon, mouthing the word _children_ at him.

“Will someone answer me?” Jon asked, trying his best to sound like Ned Stark when he’d learned of the business with the flour in the crypts—Sansa hysterical and Bran crying and Arya berating him for scaring the baby.

They didn’t answer. Not one of the three was as brave as Robb had been when he’d stepped forward, head hung, and said, “ _It was my idea, father._ ”

“From my letters,” Jon said at last, since neither party would speak, “It sounds as though you, Jon, ordered your men to march up and down between the Last River and the New Gift, through snow and ice and taking food from villagers who like as not don’t have food. And you, Alys and Sigorn, have archers lining the edge of the woods and men who are similarly stationed on the plains. Is all that the truth?”

He waited.

“I take from your silence that it is.”

“Lord Umber stationed his men first,” Alys said at once, and immediately after she said it, Smalljon Umber burst out, “And they started _organizing_ first.”

“How do you know that?” Alys shot back at him. “Do you have spies in my woods, Lord Umber?”

“No spies—traders who go for wood and furs. They noticed…odd things and came back to me with it. I’m the type to defend my land, like my father before me.”

Alys’ face colored. “Don’t you dare bring my father’s and uncle’s actions into this,” she hissed angrily.

“Oh, forgive me my lady, that wasn’t my intent.” But Smalljon’s voice was not one that showed contrition. On the contrary, he was sneering. “Your father and uncles were good men. _Northmen_.”

And there it was. “That’s enough,” Jon said even as Sigorn leaned forward, his face dark, leveling angry eyes at Jon Umber. “Lord Sigorn is Lord of Karhold, and your neighbor whether your like or not, as are his men.”

“Aye, I know it well,” Smalljon said. “And I thank you for that, your grace.”

“He says thanks,” Sigorn said. “I do not think that he means it. Is it thanks to break the peace of your king?” He turned to look at Jon. “He is neither kneeler nor free—something else entirely.”

“And what does _that_ mean?” Smalljon shouted at him, getting to his feet.

Jon raised a hand and Lord Umber took a deep breath, and sat back down.

“Let’s revisit,” he said, “What was it that your traders said they saw in the Karstark woods?”

Alys shot him a sharp look. _Trust me, Alys._

Smalljon Umber took several deep breaths. “I heard several reports from different men who went to and from Karhold. At first, I thought nothing of it. But it became increasingly unsettling.”

“What did?” Jon asked, and Sigorn of Thenn leaned forward, his eyes locked on Smalljon Umber.

“The first was that the men were building houses out of snow and rock. As I said, at first I thought nothing of this. Someone’s got to use the damn snow for something, and I know that my neighbor of Thenn has many men and women who are new to the region and won’t have houses of their own just yet, and the snow’s too deep and the earth too hard to build anything worth keeping right now. I thought it was clever—building houses out of snow, though how they’d hold a fire I’d like to know.”

“This I can tell you when all is said and done,” Sigorn said, and Smalljon gave him a smile that looked more like a grimace.

“The next was that there was song and dance. Again, why should there not be? Keep bodies warm in winter, we’d just won a war, what was the matter with all that. And then the third one said that the Thenn men were menacing folk who passed them. Good honest folk. Said that there were northmen who were wary of the Thenns, who didn’t like the look of them, didn’t trust them.”

“And why would this mean you started having men patrol the border of your lands?” Jon asked again.

“Because one said he saw a man with sharpened teeth, and if there are bloody wildling cannibals to my east, I’ll protect my smallfolk, your grace.”

Alys gasped at his words, her eyes widening in anger. “Take that back,” she said, but whatever she’d been planning to continue with died on her lips because Arya started to laugh.

“Is something amusing you, sister?” Jon asked her.

“Lord Umber,” Arya said, “where did you get the idea that the Thenns were eating people?” Smalljon Umber glanced at her, confused. “More than one man with sharpened teeth, I mean. That there were so many that you had to set up a patrol.”

He did not answer, and Arya turned to Jon. “I think that this is your fault, brother.”

“My fault?” Jon demanded.

Alys blinked, and looked between him and Arya and said, “Oh.” Then her face melted in amusement too and she turned to Smalljon. “Jon, you didn’t think that our king’s decree had to do with trouble in Karhold, did you?”

Smalljon looked affronted, and Jon imagined he did as well. Even Sigorn, who rarely looked amused, had dancing light in his eyes.

“Well—what else was I to assume?” Smalljon demanded.

Alys was shaking her head. “The Thenns have not been eating the flesh of their fellows and will not so long as we sit in Karhold. To do so violates the laws of man, and the law of our king in Winterfell. Any man found violating this will be killed.”

Smalljon was blinking, looking completely thrown, and Jon couldn’t blame him. “Gods be good, did I trek all the way north to learn that all this came from my own…” he looked at Arya, who was still grinning. The grin faded though, as she turned to Smalljon.

“There has been cannibalism, but not as far as we are aware in Karhold. Remnants of Bolton’s work in Hornwood, I’m afraid.”

Smalljon cursed. “That bleeding bastard—will his legacy never be gone? Begging pardons, your grace,” he added.

“How fare your granaries?” Jon asked both parties.

“Not well,” Alys said. “But the game isn’t too bad in the woods just yet. It seems that much of what lived north of the Wall has fled the cold and come south into our hunters’ waiting arms. It’s not enough to replace the lack of wheat, but it may help stave off starvation for a few months yet. Our fishermen are trying to find fish along the coast as well, though with limited success.”

“And you?” Jon asked Smalljon.

He grimaced. “It’s hard. We weren’t as prepared as we should have been.”

“You and the rest of the North,” Jon replied. He looked at Arya. He wished he had some sort of magical solution, but short of the changing of the seasons and Sansa’s return, he didn’t think there was anything he could do. “Well, at least you can have your men stand down. Yes?”


	11. Chapter 11

Arya

“I can’t believe it,” Jon muttered when they were back upstairs. “I can’t bloody believe it. Three weeks through snow and ice at a grueling pace to get here and why? Because they misunderstood my orders. Is that my curse? That I shall forever be unable to correctly convey my commands? At least they didn’t stab me through the heart.”

“You’ll get better at it,” Arya said, smiling. “It’s hard when they aren’t near. And it helps that they didn’t stab you through the heart. Now Smalljon has a better sense of why you make the decisions you make.”

Jon gave her a look, unsure if she was still laughing at the whole thing or not. “Does Nymeria ever have trouble like this with her wolves?” _Do you ever have trouble like this?_ he seemed to be asking.

Arya shook her head. “Wolves are easier than men,” she said. “And Nymeria’s significantly bigger than the rest of them. That helps everything.” She elbowed Jon and he elbowed her back, then reached a hand up to ruffle her hair.

“It was easier when you were smaller,” he sighed. “It’s less satisfying now that you can look me in the face as I do it.” He sounded almost wistful and his face grew somber again, but whatever he was thinking, he did not say to her.

They stayed in Last Hearth for another few days. “It seems foolish,” Smalljon Umber said to Jon, “that after all this you get back on your horse immediately.” Part of Arya was relieved. Who could not be when you didn’t have to have the white winds whipping at your face for another several weeks as you made your way south?

But the bed was cold, and lonely and she wished she could bring Nymeria into the castle to curl up next to her and keep her warm and make her feel a little less alone. She was sure that Smalljon Umber would let the wolf in—if dubiously—but she knew better than to ask Nymeria. Nymeria was a creature of the wilds, and didn’t even enter Winterfell’s great keep. She could maybe be tempted to go into the godswood, for both Summer and Shaggydog were comfortable there, and even Ghost did not need to be convinced to enter it, but for the most part, she stayed with her pack outside the gates of the castle, waiting.

Arya was eager to fall asleep each night that she could be with her wolf again. She felt as though she needed her wolf dreams less when she was in Winterfell, but far from home, in this strange cold place, sinking into Nymeria’s mind was all the comfort she needed.

The wolves were not so hungry as they had been further south. The corpses of the fallen wights kept them full, and Arya was glad that she did not have to worry about them needing to hunt so much. _It will mean less for the North to clean up when winter is over and the snows clear,_ she thought. She’d put from her mind just how many were lying hidden by snow who would reappear and rot when it grew warm again. At least the cold kept them from rotting.

Nymeria did not run this far north, or perhaps because she wanted to stay close to Arya. She circled Last Hearth over and over again, coming to know each scent in the wind. Ghost ran at her side, and Arya could feel the warmth that was Jon inside his wolf too. Shaggy was with them too, and he licked at Nymeria’s and Ghost’s faces and she knew that was Rickon, reminding them that he was home and waiting for them, not to be forgotten, not to be abandoned.

Summer ran with them too, but he kept his distance. Arya could sense nothing of Bran in the wolf.

Nymeria trotted over to him more than once and rubbed her snout against her brother. They wrestled in the snow and she nipped at him. _Come with us, brother,_ she thought to him. _Come and run. Feel your life within you._ But Summer did not respond the way she wanted to. The prince of the green took no orders from the queen of wolves it seemed, no more than Bran had heeded Arya’s begging that he come back to her.

When Arya awoke the next morning, she went to Jon, who had not yet risen from sleep. “I want to go back to Winterfell,” she told him.

“We told Lord Umber we’d stay through the end of the week,” Jon said.

“I’m worried about Bran.”

Jon frowned. “Did something happen?”

Arya bit her lip. “You saw Summer last night. He wasn’t there.”

“He hasn’t been there in months, Arya,” Jon said sadly.

“And are you satisfied with that?” Arya demanded.

Jon looked hurt. “I want him back too.”

“We aren’t getting him back from up here,” Arya said. She felt suddenly like she shouldn’t have come at all. Especially given that it was all over miscommunication—Jon hadn’t needed her at all, nor the weight of the pack of wolves at the gates.

“And what difference will a week make?” Jon asked.

Arya did not know, but she would never admit that. “I’ll go with the wolves,” she said. “I’ll ride on Nymeria as I did in war and we’ll get back to Winterfell all the faster. We can tell Lord Umber… anything. He won’t know the difference and you can stay with the men.”

“I don’t like the idea of you out in the cold on your own, Arya,” Jon said firmly.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Nymeria, and Shaggy, and Summer and all the rest of them,” she retorted. “I’m assuming Ghost will stay with you.”

“That’s not the point,” Jon said. “What will you eat? The flesh of dead men?”

Arya glared at him. “I’m sure that Lord Umber can provision me.”

“Can he?” Jon asked. “After the way he described his stores? You can’t leave just yet, Arya. Bran will wait.”

“No,” Arya said, knowing somehow the truth of her own words. “He won’t. He hasn’t waited. That’s the trouble. I’ve been so stupid, letting myself be distracted from it.”

“Distracted?” Jon asked incredulously. “Distracted by the North? By home?”

Arya gave him a look, but did not respond. She turned on her heel, and heard Jon stumbling from the bed behind her. “Arya, you can’t go. Your king commands it.”

“Does he?” she demanded, rounding on Jon and she saw a flicker of fear on Jon’s face because she knew how much he hated commanding her. “I’m not a dog to be commanded,” she whispered.

“I never implied you were,” Jon snapped. “You are putting words in my mouth.”

“And you put a leash on me, _your grace_.” She wanted to scream. She knew this was Jon the king, not Jon her brother, but what did it matter if he would not listen to her?

Jon reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. It calmed her, to her own surprise. “I would never put a leash on you,” he said. “You know that.”

“Then what will you offer your lords that I won’t have to marry them?”

“Is that what this is about?” Jon asked. “Gods be good, Arya—” He sighed, and kissed her forhead. “Go to Bran,” he said at last.

It wasn’t an answer to her question. And looking at his eyes, she could see he knew that she saw that. _But he doesn’t know the answer yet. And nor do I. I must think of something as much as he. I haven’t been doing that either._

She turned away from Jon the king and descended the stairs. She’d tell Lord Umber anything and then she’d be off, and she could scream among the wolves.

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa

“There has to be something I’m not thinking of,” Sansa murmured as she paced her bedchamber. Brienne was sitting there, watching her, her face grim, her blue eyes following Sansa’s every movement. “There has to be. What am I not thinking of? Surely there must be something he needs that I’m not thinking of, but he has everything save gold, and we cannot give him that.”

She hated losing to Harry after everything. She hated failing Jon, and the north, and worst of all, she hated that feeling that she _should_ be able to outwit Harry somehow. She knew him better than he knew her, after all, and he had few secrets simply because he didn’t know how to keep them.

 _I could threaten him,_ she thought wildly. _But that would bring me down as well, and then what good would any of it be?_

She turned to Brienne and felt tears welling in her eyes and the knight stood at once and crossed the room. She rested her hands on Sansa’s shoulders and Sansa took deep, calming breaths. “I don’t want to fail you,” she whispered to the knight. Brienne had never once failed her.

“You won’t,” Brienne said. “I know it. I know…” and suddenly her eyes went wide. “My lady—I…”

“Yes?” Sansa asked. “What is it?”

Brienne told her, and before Sansa could stop herself, she threw her arms around the knight’s neck because this—this she could use.  For the briefest moment before she rested her head on Brienne’s shoulder, she thought their lips might have connected. It was so quick that she wasn’t truly sure that it had happened, and when she pulled away from Brienne she looked at her, trying to see in Brienne’s clear, honest, blue eyes whether it was in her mind or not.

It would not be the first time she’d wished a kiss into her memory, after all.

 _No,_ Sansa thought wildly. _No, I don’t want to have wished it. Not the way I did with the Hound._

And she stood on the tips of her toes and pressed her lips to Brienne’s.

-

“So I see your new plot is to eat the king out of hearth and home if he won’t sell you food,” Randa said as she came to sat down next to Sansa. “I think he’s starting to notice.”

“He knows how to be rid of me,” Sansa said, shrugging.

“I suppose this must be the difference between Stark and Tully. Lord Edmure left forlorn after three days of Harry’s silence but you… How long have you been here? A month? And what good has come of it? Go back to the north, Sansa. You’ll not convince Harry.”

 _No more than you could,_ Sansa thought, looking at Myranda. _He is wed now, and not to you._

But she did not say it. There was little point to it, and if she was to be unkind she should like to gain something from it. _Men remember slights, and Randa remembers everything._ Had Petyr told her that, or had it been the other way around? She could not recall.

“Do you remember,” Sansa asked her, “What Harry said the day my cousin Robert died?”

Myranda’s eyes flickered. A piece of gossip she did not know—for of course she did not know it. She hadn’t been there. It had been just her, and Harry, and Petyr, and Anya Waynwood, who’d been horrified of the words passing through his lips. _Gods be good,_ she thought, _what am I doing?_ Brienne would be ashamed of her; Lord Littlefinger would revel.

“You are a tease, Sansa Stark, and you always have been,” Mryanda said at last. “In that, Harry is right, if in little else.”

Sansa smiled. “I seem to recall someone saying that teasing was half the fun of it.”

Randa rolled her eyes. “Of _men_ ,” she said. “Not whatever game you play now.”

“I don’t play any games,” Sansa lied. “I make no games of men’s lives.” That part, she prayed, was true at least. “Can Harry say the same?”

Myranda got to her feet and without another word she went off. Sansa watched her go, her heart in her throat. _I must not be a pawn,_ she thought. But it felt odd to turn someone who had once been a friend into her pawn. _I want Winterfell,_ she thought sadly. _I want Bran, and Rickon, and Arya, and Jon. I want those grey walls, I don’t want this._

But she quieted that thought. She would save it for later when, she prayed, she would at last be on the road home. Then she could wallow in her need for home. Now she must be harder, older, cleverer. _Bastard brave._

She got to her feet and let her feet take her somewhere else, anywhere else, careful to let the guards see her. It was only when she was standing in front of the door that she realized where it was that her feet had taken her: the room that Lord Petyr had conducted his affairs from.

 _I must play the part,_ she thought. Surely her father, her real father, Lord Eddard would understand. He’d had to play a part too, to keep Jon safe.

She pushed the door open.

The room was dusty and there was no fire within it. There were candles, though, and Sansa brought one of them out to the nearest torch outside to light it, then bring it in to light the rest. As she did she prayed to any gods that would hear her that this would be the end of it. _The gods don’t hear our prayers, Alayne. If they did I’d have been wed to your mother and neither Brandon nor honorable Ned would have ever had her._

 _Bran,_ she thought. _Bran would help me if he could._

But they weren’t near a weirwood tree. Bran couldn’t see her here. But she thought of his smile and felt a little stronger.

She sat behind Lord Petyr’s desk and opened the drawers in it. All his papers were missing, each of his ledgers. No doubt they were with Lord Belmore, whom Harry had named his master of coin. The poor man had been given an honor only to discover that Lord Petyr’s meticulous recordkeeping was all a sham. _Where did he hide the coin?_ she wondered. _Across the sea in Braavos, where his grandfather lived? Or somewhere closer at hand?_ If she had time, she’d go to his keep on the Fingers, speak with Kella. She might know. _If he left it to anyone, he left it to me, that I, his clever girl..._

The door banged open and Harry burst in, fury in his eyes and he slammed the door behind him.

“And what game is this now, sending Myranda to hunt after what I said when dear Robert died?” he growled at her. He knew better than to shout where everyone could hear. “What good is that as a threat to me and my crown? It was you that poisoned him—not me.”

“My cousin’s death was a tragic accident,” Sansa said. How he’d shuddered as he’d died. She hadn’t intended it. She’d thought he’d die on his own. She hadn’t known—hadn’t wanted to know what Maester Coleman had hinted at time and time again. If only she’d listened.

“A tragic accident,” Harry sneered. “It was murder. You and your father both to put me in his seat. I was glad of it. It made everything easier for the Vale. Do you think we’d have made it this far if Robert Arryn sat the high seat, always wailing for his mother’s teat? You’re glad he died too, elsewise you wouldn’t have done it.”

“I am not glad of my cousin’s death.” He had been so small in her arms. Smaller even than Bran had been, and his hair was so lovely and soft, the same color as the trickling drying blood from his nose. _He annoyed me, but I never wished him dead. I never did._ And yet, she’d known he’d die. Had she been preparing herself for it the whole time? No preparation could have allowed her to anticipate what it would have been like, what it meant, what it would lead to. “Nor could I be.”

“And yet you did it. Do you think to bring me down with it? Call me traitor? I name you kinslayer.”

Sansa looked at him evenly, and that seemed to unsettle him. He looked about the room. “Of course you come here,” he added. “Do you take strength from him? You always seemed to, running to him to solve your problems. He’s dead now, though, isn’t he? Did you poison him too?”

Sansa looked at him. _Yes,_ she thought. _And his death was sweeter even than Joffrey’s after what he did to my father, after what he did to Jeyne._ Harry took a step back from her, looking as though he had seen a wolf in the woods, looking as though he could read her mind.

“It was merely a reminder,” Sansa said quietly, “that any crime of which you accuse me—you are implicated. We danced that dance together, Harry. You cannot be rid of it so easily to make yourself feel the better man.” She spoke to him, she spoke to herself. _“You always look away from the truth,”_ Arya had shrieked at her. How easy it had been not to think of Robert while she was far from the Vale. _I shall be paying penance for his death until my own. He was only a boy. Only Bran’s age._

“Come now,” she said quietly. “You want me here no more than I wish to be here.”

“And I’ve named my price,” Harry said, “One hundred thousand gold dragons per annum until winter is ended, but you haven’t got it, have you? I’d be a fool to sell it for any less. I can wait. Winter is heavy upon our shoulders and I’d wager that Tyrion Lannister has it.”

“We have got it,” Sansa said, and Harry’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Liar.”

“Oh, not in coin, but we’ve certainly got the value of it. If you can be patient and trust a Stark word of honor—”

“I’d trust your word of honor when the seven _hells freeze over_ ,” Harry hissed.

“Then trust Jon’s. Or Daenerys’. I speak with their mouths as you know. Do you think the good King in the North would lie to you?”

Harry’s nostrils flared. He could not call her liar if he himself lied. “What is it, then?” Harry demanded. “Where is this gold you’ve squirreled away. Furs? Furs only sell for so much.”

“Not furs,” Sansa said. “Horseflesh.”

Harry sat down and stared at her. “Our queen to be has tens of thousands of horses—Dothraki horses. I’m told, though I am no master of horses myself—I’ve never been much of a rider—that they’re the finest horses in the world, finer even than Dornish sand steeds. But you know this. Your cavalry rode alongside the Dothraki in the war. You’ve seen them close at hand.”

Harry said not a word. He was watching her carefully. “Was it not your pride that meant that all your horses fell? You wanted to take the main charge, right down the middle? I wasn’t there of course, this is all what I’ve been told. It’s why so many of Daenerys’ fine Dothraki horses still live and why so many knights of the Vale perished and were raised to fight against us in their death.  It is why your stables are now empty.”

Harry’s jaw was twitching, but he waited for her to continue. “Now,” Sansa said, “I’m sure that the finest horses in the world would fetch a good price, especially with so many good horses dead in the war. It wouldn’t mean gold in hand immediately, but I’m sure that the investment is a solid one. Unless, of course, you’d prefer the horses as payment themselves. I’m sure we could reach an agreement on that front.”

“Five thousand horses,” Harry said. “Per annum until the end of winter.”

“Is there a pen in here?” Sansa asked. “I’ve always been hopeless at sums and wish to be certain that seems fair.”

“Hopeless at sums and the King in the North sends you.”

Sansa shrugged, smiling. “I have other virtues.” Harry glared at her and got to his feet opening the door and calling for a pen and paper.

It was brought, and Sansa scratched the numbers carefully down, hearing Maester Luwin in her ear reminding her that she must carry the one, and Arya’s huff of impatience because Arya was the one who was quick at sums, not Sansa, even though Arya was two years younger than her. She had to pause and count out some of the multiplications when she could not remember what they were. Under any other circumstance, she would have been embarrassed, Harry seeing just how slow she was to calculate. But she moved her quill carefully between the numbers, making it look as though she were thinking about the total, not the intermediary numbers and when she looked up, there was a sad smile on her face.

“Your grace,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say—these are the _best_ horses in the world. You would have me sell them as if they were one of Mya’s mules?”

Harry’s face twitched with rage. “You say my price is too steep? You’re the one gambling with your men’s lives.”

“Horses have other uses,” Sansa said. “I’m sure, if forced, we could find some more immediate use for them.”

“You would _eat_ them?”

“Better than eating one another, I’m sure you’ll agree. And it’s not as though I think the Dothraki would be angry at the use. They do eat horseflesh, after all. It’s sweet, to hear them tell it.”

Harry swallowed.

And she knew she had him.

-

“Your cousin’s word of honor,” Harry said to her as she mounted the Dothraki horse Daenerys had given her.

“Of course,” Sansa said. “You are more than welcome to join me in Winterfell to see it agreed to.” She watched him considering. “The winds are hard,” she said. “But you are ever welcome in my father’s halls.”

Harry turned away without another word and Sansa nodded to Brienne and the two of them kicked off through the gates.

Sansa waited until they were a mile or so down the road before she let out a whoop of joy and began to laugh. “We did it!” she cried out. “We did it, we did it for true!” Harry was sending three ships worth of grain on good faith, and they were to send a hundred horses in return. It was a good bargain—horses ate more than men.  The rest would be sent upon written receipt from the King in the North that he agreed to the terms, for Harry trusted his word far more than he trusted Sansa’s. But Sansa didn’t care. Jon would agree to it, she knew it. If it meant the lives of his people would be spared the worst of winter. She had done it, she had _done_ it, and she’d even botched the mathematics—Brienne had told her when she’d shown the paper to her—but in a way that put House Stark on top so what did that even matter?

“You did well, my lady,” Brienne told her, and her voice was very guarded as it had been ever since Sansa had kissed her. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

Sansa beamed at Brienne. “Thank you, ser,” she told her, willing that guard to come down. They were free of the Bloody Gate, now, and Sansa was tired of lying.

But it did not. “It’s no easy thing to treat with a king on behalf of a king,” Brienne continued. “Your mother did it with Renly, though, and she did it well I think.”

Sansa’s throat was suddenly thick as she looked at Brienne, bundled up in furs and leathers as she was. “I could not have done it without you,” Sansa told her earnestly. “Truly. You have done so much more for me than anyone else could have, I know it.”

“That’s not true, my lady. I’m sure had your sister come, or your brother…”

But Sansa was shaking her head. “They would not have let me do all I needed to do and trust that I could return from it,” she said. “They would have watched with horror, I think. What creature did Petyr Baelish make in me, and could I truly be what they saw. But you…” She looked at Brienne carefully, her clear blue eyes, the horrible grizzled scar on her face… _Like the Hound,_ Sansa thought. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but Brienne was too far. Instead, she looked at her—“ _Look at me_ ,” he had growled in the glowing green of wildfire and how frightened she had been—but she was not frightened of Brienne. And yet in a very different way, she was. “What an amazing woman you are, Brienne of Tarth,” she said quietly. “I—” she swallowed. _Be brave,_ she told herself. _Like a lady in a song. Ladies in songs always give their hearts to worthy knights, after all._ And she could think of no knight worthier than Ser Brienne. “I understand if my kiss was unwelcome. But I meant it and do not regret it.”

She looked away, looked out over the snowy road that would bring them down to Gulltown. Her heart was racing. It hadn’t raced this hard in her victory, but it was racing now.

“My lady,” Brienne’s voice was strangled and Sansa’s gaze snapped back to her. “My lady, it was not unwelcome. But was it truly what you want?”

Sansa took a deep breath. _Never lay all your cards on the table, Alayne,_ she heard Lord Petyr whisper in her ear.

Well, she had poisoned him, and would have hated him that much the quicker had she known all the cards in his hand. “I think you are,” she said, as much to herself as to Brienne.

She’d never felt such truth in her own words before.

* * *

* * *

 

Daenerys

“They’re coming back,” Rickon said, pelting into the solar. “Arya rides ahead with the wolves, and Jon won’t be far behind her.”

Daenerys inhaled sharply. “It’s done?”

“I think so,” Rickon said. “I don’t see why Arya would leave so soon if it weren’t.”

Daenerys’ smile widened and she handed the scroll in her hand to Rickon.

He read through it quickly then threw his arms around her. “And Sansa! Sansa too! She did it!”

“So it seems,” Daenerys said.

_I write to let you know that your cousin has been sent on her way and that three ships of grain shall make their way to White Harbor forthwith. I shall leave it to her and her most honorable knight to convey the terms of the arrangement. Harrold Arryn._

“Why did he not say the terms?” Rickon asked.

“He might not have had the space. The letter is very small,” Daenerys said, but Rickon was still frowning. “I suppose we’ll learn when Sansa is home.”

“Home!” Rickon said happily and he took Daenerys’ hands and danced her around in a circle. “Home! They’re coming home!”

Word spread quickly throughout Winterfell. Daenerys was quite certain that Rickon was telling everyone he could—the king was returning, and both princesses.

Both Erena Glover and little Lyanna Umber, who had arrived not long after Jon and Arya had left, expressed joy at the prospect, for they had yet to meet the King in the North. Both girls were sweet, stubborn things and Erena Glover took archery lessons from Robert, something that Lyanna Umber joined her in before too long.

Though food was at least a month off, Daenerys estimated—between the sailing to White Harbor and then getting it from White Harbor to Winterfell. She wrote to Lord Wyman to let him know that he would need to prepare wagons and good men to guard them. _Tell Sansa to ride ahead. She’s much missed at home,_ she added at the end of the letter for Rickon’s sake.

“They’re coming home, Bran,” Rickon told his brother over dinner.

“I know,” Bran replied. “I saw Arya riding her wolf.”

“And Sansa too. She’ll be back soon as well.”

Something like surprise flickered on his face and he looked at Rickon. “Oh. That’s wonderful news.”

“Aren’t you happy?” Rickon asked him.

“Yes,” Bran said. “I am. I have missed her.”

Daenerys reached for Rickon’s hand under the table and squeezed it.

With the prospect of more food coming, and soon, Daenerys revisited the rations with the maester. “We can’t adjust them until we know for sure that they have landed in White Harbor,” Daenerys said. “If a storm takes even one of the ships, it will change everything. And gods forbid we lose all three.”

“Gods forbid,” Maester Wolkan agreed. Missandei sat next to him, doing quick calculations on a scrap of parchment.

“But when we know that the food has arrived we can increase rations, I think. I hope.” She looked at Missandei.

“It will depend,” Missandei said slowly, and the maester glanced at her. “If word spreads that there is more food in Winterfell, more will come.” Maester Wolkan nodded in agreement.

“But perhaps we can prepare for that?” Daenerys asked.

Missandei cocked her head and looked down at her parchment. “We can try. I can try.” She paused, considering.

“There is time to prepare,” Daenerys said, and Missandei smiled at her. “I wish Jon were not already on the road. I’d write to Last Hearth and tell him.” She could see the smile spreading over his face. Perhaps he’d have danced around the room as Rickon had done, looking young and carefree in the success of it all. He so rarely looked young and careless. But it made no matter. It meant that she could tell him in person, with a kiss. She could see his joy first hand.

“We must see what coin we have at the ready,” Daenerys said at last. “To be sure that we can cover the cost of Sansa’s trade. I’m sure the price was steep, and I fear even what surety Tyrion has offered us won’t be enough. If I were Harrold Hardying, I’d not sell my food for less than the value of all the north.”

It seemed that good news would not cease, because the very next day, Missandei came and found her. “My queen,” she whispered, “come with me.” And she led Daenerys down the stairs and out a door to the side of the keep and into the glass gardens. They were warm, and there were four men knelt down in the earth, placing tubers in the dirt.

“Do we have enough sun?” Daenerys asked.

“Enough for some things, my lady,” said one of the men. “I don’t know if we can get greens just yet, but we may get the earth warm enough for potatoes.”

Daenerys nearly wept tears of joy, and it was her turn to spin Missandei around, the little scribe letting out a laugh at her queen’s joy. “Have you need of more men?” Daenerys asked. “I shall arm you with hundreds if you need it.”

The gardener chuckled. “I wouldn’t know what to do with hundreds, but I could use another five.”

“I’ll see it done,” she said. She felt lighter than air as she and Missandei left the glass gardens and she squealed again and hugged her friend. “Spring is still a long while off but _this_ is something. How long do potatoes take to grow?”

“I do not know my queen,” Missandei said. “I’ve never grown potatoes.”

Nor had Daenerys. She laughed. Perhaps, when properly prepared, winter in the north could be bearable. Perhaps this place could be home to her, so long as they weren’t all living in fear of starvation. She could smile at the icy blast of wind that struck her in the face as they rounded the keep to tell Rickon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please suspend your disbelief about the math regarding Sansa's bargain with Harry. I can't for the life of me do math and y'all know what I'm getting at.


	12. Chapter 12

Arya

Arya arrived at Winterfell as the sun was rising over the hills in the east. She let out a howl and the wolves joined her as they pelted towards home. The wolves stayed clear of the winter town. They knew they were not allowed close to where the men lived, but Arya and Nymeria, Shaggy, and Summer continued on towards the great keep of Winterfell, passing through the gates. Rickon pelted towards her the moment she dismounted, throwing his arms around her.

“She did it! Sansa did it! She got the food!” he said happily.

“What?” She spun Rickon around the courtyard, the two of them laughing together.

“She’s sailing for White Harbor now, with three whole ships of grain.” Arya pulled Rickon close to her then lifted him off the ground, giggling with delight.

When she put him down, he went over and hugged Shaggydog, burying his face in black fur and muttering to the wolf. Arya ran her hand over Nymeria, then looked around for Summer.

Summer had already departed—she could see his footsteps in the snow taking him towards the godswood. _Bran_ , she thought. Summer would know he was there, would go to him at once. She followed Bran’s wolf.

The trail that had been carved through the snow to accommodate Bran’s wheeled chair was icier than Arya had expected. _When did it last snow here?_ she wondered. It had snowed three times on the road north to Last Hearth, but only once on the way back down. Had it snowed at all in Winterfell? Nymeria loped off into the trees, sniffing at them and relieving herself against their trunks.

She found Bran sitting at the base of the tree, so close he could lean forward in his chair and press his forhead to the carved wooden face. Arya sat down in the snow next to him and took his hand. He opened his eyes.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw you coming south.”

“I could never leave you for long,” she told him.

“I know,” he said. He closed his eyes again.

“Bran,” she said and he opened them. “Bran you must fight. You must. You can’t let it continue on like this.”

He gave her a smile but it was a dreadful one, one that was only his lips moving and not his eyes. _A wooden smile, like the smile of the tree._ “There’s no need to fight,” he said. “I already fought the Crow’s Eye, and won. I’m still Bran. I’m just many other things as well.”

“You’re not,” Arya said fiercely. “You _can’t_ still be Bran if you’re many other things as well. That’s not how it works. You shouldn’t have to be more than just yourself. You must fight, Bran.”

“You haven’t known me since I was thrown,” Bran whispered. “You don’t see me as I am—you just remember me as I was. I can’t be that Bran anymore, no more than you can be that Arya.”

“I know that you fought even then. You did not die when you fell, you did not die in that cave—Bran, you _made_ it all the way to that cave in the first place. You did not live through all that just to be this shell of yourself, did you?”

The ghost of a smile crossed his face that did not reach those blank blue eyes. She could not call the distance in his eyes distance, for his eyes were always distant now. There was nothing of the brother she knew, the brother she remembered, the curious, stubborn playmate who’d assaulted the guards of Winterfell with snowballs at her side. But the distance wasn’t the same. She had learned to read faces very well, and Bran…he looked sad.

She sat quietly with him for a moment, then took his hand. “I’m home,” she said. “Rickon’s home. Sansa and Jon are coming home. You’re home. Come home, Bran. Come home.”

She remembered the hall of many faces, she remembered threats of poison and death, she remembered a knife through her gut that should have killed her but hadn’t, somehow. She had thought the gods were watching out for her, even then, and had been all the more convinced of it when Bran had mentioned things he could not have known unless he was looking out from the weirwood face in the House of Black and White.

She remembered the sound her mother had made when she’d stuck Needle into her heart. How she had lived through it all, she did not know.

“I lived through so much—so many lives worth of everything. They wanted me to lose myself in no one, but I didn’t,” Arya told him. “It’ll eat at you if you’re not careful—it ate at me. Bran don’t lose yourself to everyone else. Fight for it. For me.”

“You’d understand if you could see it too. If you knew what it could be.” Bran swallowed. “The Crow’s Eye…”

“You don’t have to do anything. The war is over. You can do anything you want.”

“And what I want to do is keep looking.”

But Arya refused to believe that.

They sat there in silence for a long while—Arya didn’t know how long. She refused to leave him this time, refused to flee, to mourn it. She had stared death in the face countless times—she refused to look away from her brother, to abandon him to whatever this was.

“Summer misses you,” she told him. “I can tell when I run with Nymeria.”

Bran shifted in his seat. “Summer,” he mused.

“Yes. Summer. Your wolf.”

“Two. And one.”

She did not know what that meant.

His eyes went white. Arya chewed her lip. A moment later, Summer came out of the trees and sat down next to her. She looked into the wolf. His eyes were warm and yellow, and as he panted at her, she noticed an odd glaze to them. _Bran_ , she thought.

She reached up and ran a hand through Summer’s fur. “Isn’t this better?” she asked him. “You know it is.”

The glaze was gone from Summer’s eyes and the wolf got up and went away. Bran’s eyes were open again, watching her.

“You can never know,” he said, “the difference. I love Summer, and Summer loves me. But it is not the same.” He turned and leaned forward against the tree again.

“And me? Do you love me?” Arya asked.

“With all my heart,” Bran replied dully.

Arya wanted to believe that, and hated that she wasn’t sure that she did.

She got to her feet, dusting the snow off her and left the godswood. She did not know if Nymeria remained with Summer or if the wolf was following her. As she approached the gateway, she rubbed her eyes.

She went into the castle and went to the room she shared with Sansa. Daenerys was in there, and she smiled and hugged Arya as a sister would.

“Welcome back,” Daenerys said. “Rickon told you?”

“About the food?” Arya asked. She pulled a smile on her face, determined to let joyful things bring joy to her. But it was hard—so hard with Bran so fresh in her mind.

“Yes,” Daenerys said.

“It’s wonderful,” Arya said.

“Tell me of Last Hearth,” Daenerys said, and Arya did.

Dinner was a boisterous affair. Arya liked Erena Glover and Lyanna Umber tremendously, though Rickon showed little interest. _It’s his age,_ she thought. She’d not been interested in boys at his age, not that she was particularly now. Perhaps that was part of the problem. That she couldn’t bring herself to be interested in any of the lords that Jon would have her wed—no fault of their own, just because she was Arya. Arya had never been a lady, after all, and ladies fell in love and swooned over men.

Arya would rather laugh with Gendry.

She looked out over the hall and saw him sitting there. He was watching her. She smiled at him and his lips twitched slightly. He raised his mug of beer to his lips and took a deep drink, then looked away.

That was odd.

She frowned and took another drink of her own beer, and looked back at him and he was watching her again, but looked away when he saw her look towards him. _What on earth?_

She had half a mind to march over to him and demand to know what was going on. But instead she turned to Lord Tallhart and asked what news there was of Torrhen’s Square and before long was chatting merrily with him. She found she liked him better now than she had before, perhaps because Jon wasn’t there hoping she’d fall in love with him. He was nicer than she’d remembered, and had an honest smile. His eyes were a nice shade of brown, but she saw little fire in them as he spoke of his younger brother, and of the repairs that were being made to the castle.

When she looked back at Gendry much later, he had gone.

It rankled.

She rose from the table and bade everyone a good evening, pleading that she’d had a long journey and should like to rest. But when she left the hall, she went not to her own chambers, but to the chambers she knew that Gendry occupied. There was a light coming from under his door and she knocked firmly on it.

He opened the door. “What was that about?” she demanded, brushing past him to stand in the room.

“You can’t just come in here,” Gendry said.

“Why not?” Arya demanded.

“Because people will think something of it?”

“And if I don’t care?”

“Then perhaps you won’t care that they already think something of it.”

Arya frowned.

“What?”

Gendry rolled his eyes. “There are rumors about us you know. Because of you coming by the forge before you left.”

“That we’re…” Arya gaped at him. It was as though she were seeing him for the first time now, tall and dark haired and muscular. His eyes shone in a way that Brandon Tallhart’s did not. Some stupid corner of her brain imagined him crossing the distance between them and kissing her, his hands in her hair, holding her face to his.

“Yes, that we’re,” Gendry snapped. “So if my lady would prefer not to have her honor further besmirched, perhaps she shouldn’t come into my bedchamber at night.”

“What do I care about my stupid honor?” Arya retorted.

“You’re a princess.”

“So? Daenerys was a queen and you don’t see people caring that she and Jon bed down unwed.”

“But they’re to wed,” Gendry said. “And we’re…nothing.” His voice sounded empty at the words. Arya’s mouth went dry and she swallowed, trying to make the dryness go away.

She didn’t know what to say to that. They weren’t nothing—Gendry was her best friend, her oldest friend at this point, but if she said they weren’t nothing that’s not what it would mean. They weren’t nothing, though. Or were they?

She took a step towards him. “Gendry,” she said slowly, but he wasn’t looking at her.

“You must be tired,” he said to her, his voice dull. “You should get your rest.”

She took another step towards him and raised a hand to touch his face. His skin was warm, and when his eyes snapped to hers her breath stopped.

And then his lips were on hers, crashing there, and she hadn’t even had time to gasp for air but she didn’t need air, not for true, because she had Gendry.

But just as soon as it had started he had stopped kissing her, had turned away so that his back was to her. “You should go,” he said. His voice was hollow, defeated.

She reached out and touched his shoulder and he turned his head ever so slightly. But he did not face her. She could not see those brilliant blue eyes of his.

She went, and she heard his door close behind her. _We’re not nothing,_ she thought. She remembered the feeling of his lips against hers, and reached up to run her fingers over them. Had that really happened? She should have wanted to bite his lip for kissing her, should have wanted to slap him for trying. But she didn’t. She kept rubbing her lips, her head swirling.

Nothing could ever be easy, could it?

* * *

* * *

 

Brienne

They arrived in White Harbor, tired but pleased with themselves, and Sansa spent the day in company of Lord Wyman and his granddaughters. Lord Wyman graciously offered to house some of the grain in the granaries of White Habor, but Sansa insisted that it all be brought to Winterfell.

“We haven’t the wagons for it,” Lord Wyman said.

“Truly?” Sansa replied, arching an eyebrow. “I somehow doubt that.” And the wagons were found. They dined comfortably in the Wolf’s Den and Lord Wyman suggested that they stay on for several days, to recover from the sea in preparation for the hard road ahead, but Sansa shook her head, “Lady Daenerys bade us make to Winterfell in all haste, and in truth I long to see my brothers once again.”

So they spent only one night in White Harbor before she and Brienne mounted their horses once again and rode off into the cold.

They were prepared for it this time. The mountain roads had been hard and windy, and that wind had been quite as fierce as the persistent cold. When they made camp at night, Sansa knew how to prepare wood for the fire, and even helped spit the fish that Lord Wyman had sent them off with. “We’ll be home again soon.” She sounded so glad of it, and the smile on her face was enough to keep Brienne warm. She looked so like Lady Catelyn, and she knew that in the seven heavens, Lady Catelyn, the _real_ Lady Catelyn, not the horrible vengeful spirit that had possessed her corpse, would be smiling down upon them.

“There’s more daylight than there was,” Sansa said on their first full day out in the cold. “It’s almost as much as there was when first we arrived in the Vale.”

She was right. “The world is righting itself at last,” Brienne told her, and Sansa smiled at her, and there was a slight flutter to Brienne’s stomach. The days stretched on.

“Your brothers will be glad to see you,” she told Sansa.

“And I them,” Sansa said. “I can’t wait to be in my own bed again.”

Was there anyone who’d ever been so beautiful as Sansa? Mocking men had called her Brienne the Beauty, but Sansa was truly beautiful, the way her hair shone, the blue of her eyes, the arch of her nose, the gentle red of her lips—chapped in the wind, but Brienne was sure they were soft. Sansa smiled at her, and Brienne felt as though she were the greatest knight to have ever lived, the sort that songs would be sung about forever. Would songs be sung about this journey, of Sansa’s bravery in bringing food to the north after the war? Would those songs include Brienne? If they did, surely they’d paint her nobly. Surely they wouldn’t make mockery of her name as she did when at night she held Sansa close and fell asleep in her warm embrace.

It felt like a dream, riding with her now with the promise of food and the truth of each other’s heart for company. They shared quiet kisses in the mornings and evenings, and when it was just the two of them and the snow, Brienne did not feel as though the world would be against the two of them for what they meant to one another. The world was asleep under the snow. They were the only two living creatures in it, and when Sansa smiled at her, Brienne felt beautiful. And every day, Brienne felt more lost in it, felt her heart fill even more with Sansa.

That sense of being the only two people in the world did not last, though. Before long, they came upon an inn along the Kingsroad, for they took the Kingsroad this time. Winterfell had had it cleared as best it could be for the advent of the food, and the inns were bustling, even if the stew they ordered for dinner was thin and flavorless. The dark brown beer they had to go with it was more than enough flavor for them, and they drank heavily from their mugs before climbing the stairs again. And suddenly, just like that, they were two women traveling the road together, and they dared not quietly kiss after meals for Sansa was a princess and Brienne was a knight and the good people of the inn would stare at them in horror at it all.

Brienne did not have to explain why she did not hold Sansa’s hand, no more than Sansa did. They both knew—as they knew that not a single person would care if the two of them shared a bed in the inn. What could they possibly mean to each other? Did Brienne think herself a man? What a freak she had always been.

When the door to the room they had rented closed behind them, Sansa pulled Brienne to her and kissed her deeply, her hands coming up to run through Brienne’s hair and her tongue tracing the outside of her lips. “I care about you, not them,” she whispered to Brienne, and it sounded like she was trying to convince herself of it quite as much as she was trying to convince Brienne. “You are loyal and good and kind and gentle and strong and everything I have ever wanted.” And her lips found Brienne’s again and Brienne’s arms wrapped around Sansa, pulling her as close as she could. “You’re a truer knight than anyone I know. When I was a girl, I dreamed of being so lucky to find someone like you.”

 _I dreamed of you_ , Ser Jaime had said when he’d come to find her in the pit. She’d been wearing that horrible pink dress, and had been sure she’d die, but would die fighting.

“Well, you found me,” Brienne tried to jape. She’d never been very funny, and this was no japing matter at all.

“No,” Sansa said, “You found me.” Brienne could feel her breath on her skin, could feel the way she seemed to be shaking. “You keep me brave, Brienne.”

They stumbled towards the bed together, and perhaps it was defiance on Sansa’s part—anger at having to hide, anger at having to defend herself—or perhaps it was simply that they were indoors, and there was a bed, and the dream had been real, and they had come to mean more to one another with every passing day. But Sansa tugged Brienne’s tunic up over her head, and though the room was somewhat cold, Brienne could not care because Sansa’s eyes were so warm and her hands—gods her hands were on Brienne’s skin, circling at one of her nipples.

“Is this all right?”

Brienne leaned up and kissed Sansa. How sweet she tasted. How perfect.

How could Brienne have ever thought there was wrong in this? When Sansa’s lips came to her chest and kissed her there, nothing had ever felt sweeter.

Nothing at all—at least until Sansa’s hand slipped down to her trousers and undid the laces she found there. “I am not sure…” Sansa was smiling from between Brienne’s small breasts, “if I _can_ take your virtue. I’m led to believe that’s only something men can do.”

“I’d give it to you gladly,” Brienne told her, her voice thick.

Sansa pressed her lips to Brienne’s breastbone and her fingers dipped lower and that—that was what the septons warned about, that swooping feeling in her gut, the way her heart was beating so quickly that surely it was the fires of the seven hells pumping blood through her.

But no—it couldn’t be. Not when it was Sansa whose hands were slipping along the length of her slit, light and gentle. Not when it was Sansa who was sitting up, tugging her underdress over her head so that Brienne couldn’t focus on anything else because Sansa’s breasts were the most beautiful she had ever seen. Not when it was Sansa who was tugging her pants down her legs and who was climbing back up her torso to kiss her as her fingers rubbed at her.

Brienne kissed her as hard as she could, using Sansa’s lips to muffle the moans in the back of her throat as Sansa’s hands worked magic. She had such artful fingers. Brienne shouldn’t be surprised at that—she had seen Sansa’s needlework after all. _How does she know how to undo me, though?_ Brienne wondered. Brienne, who had never learned how to undo herself, who had never dared because it had felt like something she could not bring herself to give to herself.

But Sansa…

Brienne’s hands found her breasts, plump and smooth as they were and she knows her hands were calloused, but Sansa didn’t seem to care for Brienne felt her rocking her own sex against Brienne’s thigh now. And Brienne did not know why or how that, more than the feeling of Sansa’s fingers against her sex, sent blood roaring through her ears and made her gasp and moan and twitch, but it did.

 _How does she want me?_ Brienne wondered.

But that question did not mattered. What mattered was that she did. That they were here, that they were giving themselves to one another and Brienne took a deep breath and looked at Sansa. “I…I don’t know what to do,” she said, letting her hand trail down to Sansa’s sex.

Sansa’s hand came to rest on Brienne’s own and a moment later, Brienne felt soft, warm, wet heat. Her breath hitched.

“I’ll show you,” Sansa said. “We’ll learn together.”

-

She awoke the next day with Sansa lying next to her awake. Her blue eyes were warm as they watched her.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked her because she could not think of what else to say.

“I did,” Sansa whispered. “I had the sweetest dream.” And she kissed Brienne again.


	13. Chapter 13

Jon

Jon arrived back in Winterfell, tired and grumpy. The road south had not been nearly so enjoyable without Arya and when he dismounted from his horse after the sun had set, there wasn’t anyone out to greet him. They were at dinner, he knew, and was glad they had the sense to finish eating while food was scarce.

Word made its way swiftly to the hall, because as he reached the doors, Daenerys came out, her face a picture of beautiful joy as she threw her arms around him and kissed him. The taste of her tongue against his was enough to make him forget the aches of the road almost instantly. _Home again,_ he thought.

“Welcome home,” she whispered to him when he broke the kiss, and he pressed his lips to her forhead. “I have wonderful news.”

“Oh?”

“Three ships worth of grain make their way north from White Harbor.”

If Jon’s heart functioned properly, it would have frozen then and there. Instead he picked Daenerys up and whirled around, laughing. “She did it!”

“She did!” Daenerys laughed. “And there’s more.” Jon’s mind flew to Bran. Had Arya broken whatever spell he was under too? “There are potatoes in the glass gardens, and winter greens that are beginning to poke through the topsoil.”

Jon kissed her again, holding her as close to him as he could. “Come eat,” she whispered to him.

“I could eat you,” he said into her lips, his arms still around her waist.

“If you’re still hungry after dinner,” she replied with a soft smile, and he followed her into the Hall.

They were all there. Rickon knocked his chair over as he got up to hug Jon. Arya sat at Bran’s side, smiling at the sight of Jon, but there was a furrow to her brow when she turned to look at Bran. Bran’s smile and wave didn’t reach his eyes, for it never did, and when Jon settled next to him, Bran said not a word. Daenerys introduced him to Erena Glover and Lyanna Umber, both of whom curtseyed and blushed at the sight of him.

“My brother treated you well, your grace?” Lyanna asked.

“Very,” he said. “We ate well.”

“And the trouble is…resolved?” she asked.

Jon glanced at Arya. Had Arya not told her? That was strange.

“Yes,” Jon said. “All is resolved at present.”

“I’m gladdened to hear it,” Lyanna said.

“I wish to hear more about this food,” Jon said to Daenerys. “Has it arrived in White Harbor?”

“Yes, we had a bird from Lord Wyman this morning. He’s sending it up in wagons—well guarded wagons,” she said.

“I sent Shaggy down to run with them,” Rickon said. “He’ll keep them from stealing.”

“Not Nymeria?” Jon asked Arya.

“She’s hunting in the wolfswood. She did not wish to run so far from me for the time being,” Arya replied.

“Smart wolf,” Jon smiled, and Arya grinned at him.

It felt wonderful to be back in Winterfell. The hall full of his men, the table full of his family, and warmth in the walls of the castle. He stayed at the table late into the night, drinking and laughing with everyone. It was Arya and Bran who left first, bringing Bran upstairs for bed since he was nearly asleep. Rickon followed soon after, and their guests trickled away as well. At last, Jon and Dany left, arm in arm, and when they came to his room, there was a tub full of hot water waiting for him. They shed their clothes, kissing and laughing as they fumbled at laces before settling into the warm water together.

Daenerys reached for the bar of soap on a little stand by the tub and rolled it between her hands to get a lather, then began rubbing his neck, her fingers finding tight muscles. Jon let out a sigh. “I missed you,” he said. “Gods I missed you.”

“I missed you as well,” she said. “I’m glad you are back safely.”

Jon leaned forward and kissed her, water slopping over the edge of the tub, and the kiss was long and deep. She shifted, coming to straddle his hips, her sex resting just above his own. Her hands were still at his neck, still rubbing warmth into his muscles there. She felt so good, her skin so soft, her warmth so perfect.

She washed him. He hadn’t expected her to—usually she would sit back and watch him wash, and he’d watch her wash, but she ran the soap over his skin, under his arms, massaging his muscles. When he saw what it was she was doing, he leaned back in the tub and let her, closing his eyes, and letting the slick feeling of her soapy fingers send warmth through him.   It was not long before he was hard, but he was sure she wasn’t surprised by that at all, not with the way she was sitting, not with the way she was touching him. And when he opened his eyes it was to see her breasts right in front of him, perfect and pale and so soft. He leaned forward and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking it lightly, running his tongue over it, and Daenerys’ breath hitched.

He looked up at her, his mouth still on her breast. Her eyes were closed now, one hand resting on the edge of the tub, the other on his shoulder. Jon reached down between them and found her slit and began to rub gently. Dany moaned and he slid a finger inside her, feeling a whole different kind of wet within her than he felt in the rest of the tub. He slid his finger in and out, and the hand that was resting on his shoulder reached down between them too and her fingers closed about his cock, pumping him gently.

Then Daenerys opened her eyes and let out a noise of impatience and pulled at his hand. She slid herself onto him and Jon rested his head against her shoulder, his muscles all twitching. She felt so good, it felt so good to be here with her, in her.

She began to move, to ride him, and he leaned back again against the tub, watching her through hooded eyes. He rested his hands on her hips as she rocked her hips against him, and she was so beautiful, and when his eyes found hers he could not look away.

“ _Love comes in at the eyes_ ,” she’d once whispered to him. It was something, she told him, that she had learned too young to understand fully. But he could lose himself forever in the love in her eyes and the heat of her that warmed him far more than the bathwater ever could.

She came with a cry and collapsed forward against him, her breasts pressed against his chest. He could feel her clenching around him, but it wasn’t quite enough to finish him just yet. He waited for her to settle a little more, then pulled out of her. He helped her to her feet and kissed her as he helped her towel herself dry. She led him to his own bed and pushed him down upon it and at first he thought she meant to mount him again, but she didn’t. She kissed her way down his chest, kissing along the line of each scar the knives had left behind, kissing down until she was kissing her way along the length of his cock. She took him in her mouth, and Jon tightened his fingers on the furs underneath him, relishing in the way her tongue felt as she licked her way along him, swallowed him deep into her throat, humming at the taste of him until he was unmanned.

Heart still beating eratically, he pulled her up to him and cradled her against his chest, brushing stray wet hair from her face. He kissed her then, slowly, lazily, and she grinned against his lips.

He didn’t fall asleep right away—nor did she. He was glad of that, of being able to hold her as closely as he could, to be awake with her when it was just the two of them and nothing else in the world.

“Was the road hard?” she asked him.

“Harder than I’d have liked,” Jon admitted. “Easier than it could have been. There was no trouble while I was gone?”

Dany’s smile faltered. “A little bit,” she said. “I dealt with it well, I think.”

“What happened?”

“A fight between some northman and Dothraki. Someone was trying to kill and eat a horse.” Jon’s eyebrows flew up. Daenerys kept talking. “I called him a poacher and took two fingers.”

“Only two? That was generous of you,” Jon said.

“I wasn’t sure if I could be harsher. They aren’t my people.”

“They are your people.”

“Not yet. Not the way they are yours. I’d rather be seen as too gentle than as a mad queen.” There was something odd in her voice, something he didn’t expect. “I’m not of the north. And if it were a matter of my ruling all the kingdoms, I should do as I thought was right.”

“Did you think your own punishment too light?” Jon asked.

“No. I thought it just enough to prevent it happening again.”

“Then it was right,” he said simply. He pressed his lips to her forhead.

“What I’m trying to say,” Dany said impatiently, “is that I must temper my own view of what’s right with your view of it. The verdict can never be only mine—it must also be yours.”

Jon saw it now. “As mine must also be yours,” he said gently.

“Must it?” she asked quietly.

That caught Jon off guard. “Are you saying I don’t?”

“I’m saying…you are king in the north, and I’m to be your queen. But the queen I will be here is not the sort of queen I would have been, but you can be the same king. It’s not equal—it never shall be.”

Her words pained him. “How do I make it equal?” he asked her quietly.

Daenerys looked at him sadly. “I don’t know that you can—not without your men thinking I winkle power away from you.”

“Do you feel trapped by me?”

Daenerys shook her head. Then she sighed, and rested her head against his chest. “I don’t know what I feel,” she said. “Everything is new, and not what I expected it to be. While you were gone, it felt like it had before ever I met you, all the power in my hands. I hadn’t realized that I’d missed that. But I missed you more.”

“I’m glad of that,” Jon teased. “Since it sounds like you could handle yourself just as well without me.”

Daenerys gave him a look and he kissed her. Then, slowly, they drifted off to sleep.

* * *

* * *

 

Arya

She couldn’t quite say it was as if Gendry had not kissed her. That would be a lie. She visited him in the forge, where they would talk, but there was a distance there. _Why,_ Arya thought, _did there have to be distance with everyone? First Bran, sometimes Jon, and now Gendry?_ They trained in the yard some days, but other days she saw him training with an arakh alongside one of Daenerys’ Dothraki screamers. He wasn’t quick, and she could still beat him easily, but she could tell he was getting better at using a weapon that required more than just throwing all your strength behind your movement.

She noticed things about him she wished she wouldn’t and blamed him for kissing her. When she found him shirtless in the forge, she noticed the way his muscles rippled, how broad his shoulders were, the curl of the hair on his chest. When they were sparring, she noticed the heat that rolled off him as she danced around him. When he was sparring with the Dothraki man, she noticed the way he moved—not gracefully, but not inelegantly either.

In short, she was furious with him.

 _He had the nerve to go and kiss me, and now pretend it had never happened_ , when it so clearly _had_ happened. It was obvious to her in the way he looked at her, as though from miles away, in the way he spoke to her, friendly enough, but again distant, in the way he watched her when he thought she didn’t notice.

Arya was better at keeping track of people when they thought she wasn’t than Gendry would ever know. She saw him watching her at dinner, saw him watching her when she moved about his forge, saw him watching her when he should be paying attention to the arakh he was holding. He couldn’t stop watching her.

And she couldn’t stop watching him.

It was unbearable.

And, to make matters worse, she was completely positive Daenerys had noticed.

She gave Arya knowing looks at dinner, and would sometimes smile commiseratingly. What did she know? Or what did she think she knew? She had been at Winterfell this whole time, hadn’t she? If Gendry said there were rumors…

She cornered Daenerys one morning after breakfast, before Daenerys went off with Jon. “Why do you keep looking at me that way?” she asked her, sizing her up.

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. “Like what?”

“Like you know something.”

Daenerys looked about them, but Arya had cornered her well. No one was nearby. “I saw you watching Gendry,” she said. “And I know he watches you.”

“So?”

“There have been rumors that you are…fond of one another.”

“Rumors? What sorts of rumors?”

Daenerys gave her a look, and Arya sighed. “Never mind. I can guess.”

“Is there truth to them?” Daenerys asked her quietly.

Arya didn’t know how to answer that, but the look on her face seemed to have been enough.

Daenerys patted her arm and gave her another commiserating look and left her there, more confused than she had been before.

 _I should be like Nymeria,_ Arya thought bitterly as she went down to the godswood to find Bran. _Throwing off any lesser that tried to mount me._

She found Nymeria and Summer sleeping in the snow, curled around one another and she went and sat down on the ground next to Bran. He was leaning against the tree again.

She looked at him. He did not acknowledge her presence this time. “I don’t understand what’s going on with Gendry,” she told him. And the gods, she supposed, but mostly Bran. “He kissed me, but now pretends it did not happen, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Is he in love with me? Isn’t he? Does he want me? Doesn’t he?”

She let out a huff of air. “Does it even matter? Since Jon says I’m to wed a northerner?” That thought made her frown, and she knew she had found the truth in it. More than her own confusion, more even than Gendry’s behavior, there it was again. Jon’s command that she marry, which despite both of their words neither had done anything substantial to change.   _I want him not to want it,_ she thought sadly,  _and he wants me to prevent it from happening._

“I’d never love my husband as I love Gendry,” she said tremulously, furious with the lump in her throat even more than she was furious with Gendry for causing all this. “And before you say anything,” she said to Bran, who said nothing at all, “I don’t mean it as being in love with him. I mean it as he’s my best friend, and if the best I can hope for is a best friend in my husband…”

She thought of her parents, how warmly they loved one another, how closely they shared one another’s confidence. She thought of Jon and Daenerys, and how sometimes they said little things that made the other smile but which no one else seemed to fully understand.

 _I have that with Gendry,_ she thought. _He knows parts of me no one else ever could._ It made her sad. Wasn’t that what Sansa had gone on and on and on about as a girl, a husband who understood you better than you understood yourself? No husband would understand her half so well as Gendry.

 _I’m bereft of him before I’ve even truly had him,_ she thought.

She reached a hand up to hold Bran’s. He did not stir.

“I need you,” she whispered to him. “I need _someone_ to talk to.” She’d thought she’d had Gendry, but she couldn’t talk to him about this—he was being far too stupid. And Jon…would she get Jon the brother or Jon the king?

_I only ever get Bran the greenseer._

Nymeria lifted her head and sniffed the air. Arya slid into her skin for a moment and smelled—Sansa!

She got to her feet. “Bran, Sansa’s back. She’s home,” she told him and not caring if he wanted to be wheeled away or not, she leaned him back in his chair and began rolling him towards the edge of the godswood.

“Take me back,” he rasped to her.

“No. Sansa is home.”

“Arya,” she felt a wave of something she’d never felt before wash over her, as though there was… _something_ crossing her mind. As quickly as it started though, it was gone. Then she saw that Bran was crying.

“What is it?” she asked, dashing to the front of his chair and kneeling down in the snow next to him. “What happened?”

“It’s my fault,” was all he said and there were tears on his face. “All my fault.”

“It never was,” Arya said, not knowing what he was talking about, but knowing it couldn’t possibly be true.

She wrapped her arms around him, and he was shaking against her. “Bran,” she whispered, rubbing his hair.

“I hate it,” Bran whispered. “I hate myself.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said firmly and when she looked at her brother, he was there, that was her Bran! “Don’t you dare hate yourself, Bran. I love you too much to let you do that.”

He choked back a sob. “I love you too,” he whispered, but even as she watched she saw his eyes begin to fade back to their old distance.

“No. No! Bran! Come back. Come back, Bran!” she pleaded, but he was already gone.

Now it was her turn to cry. He’d been there, he’d _been_ there, her brother, her Bran.

She wanted to scream. _Is this what I get for killing mother? A Bran who won’t come back?_

She wiped her tears away, and got to her feet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a head's up--I know I usually post on Sundays but I'm not sure I'll be able to next Sunday. I'll be traveling, and am not sure I'll be in posting mode.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience in getting this chapter up! There should (I hope) be no more interruptions in the weekly updates between now and the end of the fic. Also you'll note I upped the chapter count; this is not because I have written more but I decided to divide up an oncoming chapter into two bits.

Jon

With dinner over, they all were seated at the high table that they’d once sat at with their father. He and Daenerys where Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn had once sat, Sansa, Bran, Arya, and Rickon with them. They had bade Missandei stay and join them, as well as Maester Wolkan, and Brienne had, of course, been invited to stay for she was as much to thank for all this as Sansa for without her presence, Sansa would never have made it to the Vale and back safely.

Sansa told them everything, about Harrold Hardyng’s cool reception of her, about the tribulations that the Vale had found itself in because of Lord Littlefinger’s work on their finances. It made for an interesting tale, and Sansa told it well.

“He was demanding far more than we could pay, though he never gave me a sum,” Sansa was saying. “And he refused to budge on it. He’d already sent away my uncle Edmure when he came to see if the Vale would sell, and said he was waiting to see if Lannister Gold would trickle its way towards him. Though in truth, I think he meant to reject it,” Sansa added. “It was Tyrion’s hand that provided the mountain clansmen with steel and they are harrying the men of the Vale most ferociously this winter, or so it was said in the Bloody Gate.”

“And how did you convince him to drop the price?” Jon asked Sansa, smiling into his beer.

“I didn’t,” Sansa said. “I merely made note of some resources that we had that he was lacking and convinced him to pay steeply for it.”

“And what was that?”

“Horseflesh,” Sansa said, and she looked so pleased with herself.   “I promised him forty heads for the three ships of grain we have now, and thousand for another year’s worth of food. If the days continue lengthening, we won’t need more than that for soon spring will be upon us, and we’ll have made it through this period of starvation.” She turned to Daenerys and only then did her smile fade. Jon glanced at her too and saw something he’d never thought to see in her eyes.

He knew that Daenerys could rage. He’d seen it happen before, had felt her wroth before. But it was as though a dragon had been awoken in her as she stared his sister down.

“I had not realized,” she said coolly, “that horseflesh was to be traded.” She looked at Jon and he steeled himself. “Was I not to be informed of this as they are the horses of my khalasar?”

“Jon did not tell me to,” Sansa said at once, but Daenerys did not turn back to look at her. “I saw the opportunity. So many of the Vale’s knights and horses perished in the war.”

“That was King Harrold’s pride, not mine. Is he to be rewarded with my horses for sending his men to die in a charge that could only lead to slaughter?”

“Dany,” Jon said quietly. “Forty horses for three ships of food is a reasonable trade.  Especially with spring on the way.”

She said something in Dothraki and Jon glanced between Rickon and Missandei. Both of them looked stricken. Then Missandei opened her mouth to translate. “A man who cannot ride is not a man.”

“You have said time and again that my horselords are worth more to the north than just giving their lives. And yet you take without asking what it is to live to them? The word _dothraki_ means one who rides, but you would give away their mounts.”

“Not give,” Jon said, feeling his own anger rise in him now. “Trade. Sell. Or else we shall all die. They’d have to eat their horses if it weren’t for this trade.”

“At least the choice would be theirs, rather than having it ripped from them,” she said.

“And are the lives of your horses worth more than the lives of all our men?”

“That was what the poacher said,” Daenerys snapped. “But I never expected you to be a poacher too.”

“Dany,” Rickon pleaded. He did not like her rage and reached for her but pulled his hand away when that fearsome look on her face was directed at him. Only then did the rage fade.

She looked back at Jon, her face more composed now. No one said anything more. Everyone was waiting for someone else to speak. Jon took a deep breath. “How many will die? Your Dothraki among them?”

She closed her eyes, her jaw clenched.

“You think me unreasonable?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he responded evenly.

She got to her feet and without another word swept from the room. “Dany. Daenerys!” he called after her, but she was gone.

He wanted to run after her, to hold her, to tell her it would be all right, that her people would know it was _him_ that did it, not her. But he took a deep breath and turned back to the table. “I shall write to King Harrold on the morrow,” Jon said. “To confirm with him in writing the terms you agreed to.”

“I have a written document from him,” Sansa said. “It’s up in my room, but I’ll get it to you.”

Jon nodded at her. He looked around the table. He noticed that Missandei had slipped away, had undoubtedly gone after Daenerys. _Ease her heart,_ he thought at the steward. _Help her understand._

 _“It’s not equal,_ ” she’d said in bed the night he’d returned. _Gods be good, it can’t be if decisions like this are made without her in my name._

“Well,” Jon said, bracing himself. _Do not do this now_ , he thought to himself, but he was too angry to listen to that thought. “It seems as though our trouble with feeding ourselves has abated for the time being. Gods willing, spring will come soon,” he said, glancing at Bran. Bran’s face was vacant. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Which means, I suppose, that we should revisit the matter I brought to you before you departed, Sansa.” He looked at her.

“The way you reward me on the night of my victorious return is to command me to marry?” she asked him, and there was steel in her voice. She sat up a little straighter and the smile on her face made her look so very much like Lady Catelyn that it made his blood run cold for just a moment.

“Merely to remind you of your duty,” he said calmly. “I have said to the both of you—I would have you choose,” he looked at Arya.

“You said we could choose, and you also said you’d try to find another solution that would mean we wouldn’t have to wed at your command,” Arya retorted hotly.

Jon was shaking. He had sworn that, he had—and yet every time he’d turned his mind to it, he hadn’t been able to think of anything. Short of food and peace—neither of which winter would allow for. What other option was there? When every lord he spoke to asked after his sisters? _It’s how they get power—through Arya and Sansa._

“And what if I choose never to marry?” Arya demanded. “What if I’d rather live all my life alone than marry Brandon Tallhart, or Smalljon Umber?” This had, indeed, been the wrong time to broach it. He turned to Rickon instead.

“I don’t suppose you had a preference for a bride, did you?”

But before Rickon could reply, Arya snapped, “Don’t.”

He turned back to her. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend it’s all of us. Rickon’s too young to care. He likes both of them fine, but he fancies neither of them. Though I will confess to pitying the girls you parade before him.”

“Arya, please,” Rickon pleaded, “Please don’t fight. Sansa just got back.”

But Arya seemed past caring and there were angry tears in her eyes. When Jon dared to glance at Sansa again, he saw a similar ferocity in her face, though her lips were pursed so tightly they were very nearly white.

“Peace in the north traded with your bride’s horseflesh and my cunt, I suppose,” Arya snarled, and in her eyes he saw a shade of her wolf, the hell bitch who led a pack of thousands who not even her own brothers could fully cow. “It’s the easiest way, after all.”

“Arya.” He tried to sound stern, tried to sound as hard as winter, but he found his voice broke like a little boy’s. _Please, little sister._

“I liked you better as a brother than a king,” she said and got to her feet and fled the room.

Jon turned to Sansa. “You hate me too, I suppose?” he asked wearily.

“I find increasingly,” Sansa said quietly, “That kingship sits ill on the shoulders of any man. I hope my brother is still in there somewhere.”

* * *

* * *

Arya

Arya flew through the castle, the wind howling like a wolf outside. She wanted to howl too. She wanted to run with her wolf, but when she slid into Nymeria’s skin, her wolf was still curled around Summer in the Godswood. Ghost was there too, nuzzling into the pair of them. She pulled away. Even the sight of Jon’s wolf made her angry.

She hated being angry with him. She hated him for making her angry with him. She hated all of this, and everything that had brought her to this point.

 _It’s not a choice if you can’t choose,_ she remembered Gendry saying when first she’d gone to him.

And suddenly she knew she needed to see him. She needed him to be furious with her, or to kiss her again, or to stand there while she beat her fists into his chest. He was always steady, Gendry, and more importantly, unfailingly hers. Jon once had been, but now he had the north. She could not even say he had Daenerys anymore.

 _I hope that she does not stay angry at him for long,_ Arya thought. She did not think that Jon could bear it. It was the sole charity she could allow him in that moment.

She pounded on the door to Gendry’s bedchamber, pounded so hard her fists hurt. She didn’t even know if he was there. This time, there was no flickering of candle light from under the door. But after a time, the door opened and she saw him looking disheveled, as if he’d just climbed from bed.

“What in seven—” Gendry said as he opened the door, but Arya blew past him and shut the door behind her. The room was pitch black in the night, and all she could say was, “Don’t say anything,” and she stood on the tips of her toes kissed him, hard.

He did not push her away, but he did not kiss her back and when she broke away from him, it was too dark to see his face.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked.

And she was crying. “It’s the same stupid thing as always,” she said. “It’s that I must marry and I don’t want to. It doesn’t matter if I can choose whoever I want, I can’t choose you and if I had to choose anyone, I’d choose you.”

She heard Gendry inhale sharply. “What?” he asked.

“I’d choose you,” she said. “I would. I’d even be happy if I did, but I can’t.”

Gendry wrapped his arms around her and held her tight and he smelled so very good. She’d had to notice before—the way the scent of him was calming to her, the way his presence was steadying. She was kissing him again—not his lips, but his chest, the part that appeared at the top of the line of his shirt, and the taste of his sweat on her tongue tasted better than the meat she’d eaten on Nymeria’s tongue when she’d been blind in Braavos.

She wasn’t blind now. Already, her eyes were adjusting to the dark, and when she looked up at Gendry, he was looking down at her as though he couldn’t believe what was happening. “Would you choose me?” she asked him quietly, already knowing the answer.

His lips crashed against hers, and his tongue filled her mouth—an odder feeling than she was expecting. She’d heard people talk of kisses with tongues as though they were the sweetest thing in the world, but it felt strange to have his tongue in there with hers. Strange until she was used to it. Then she found the sweetness of it, and before long she was panting, her hands roving the stretch of his back, having slid beneath the hem of his untucked shirt.

They stumbled back to his bed—a narrow thing. Too narrow for him, much less the both of them, but he lay on his back, with her on top of him, her legs rubbing up and down against his as his hands cupped at her arse. She could feel the bulge of him between his legs, and part of her was nervous. But Arya Stark was not one to let her nerves get the better of her, not now, not ever, and she reached a hand down between them to cup him.

Gendry groaned, and grabbed her hand.

“You don’t want me to?” she asked him.

“What are we doing?” he asked her.

“What does it look like we’re doing?”

“I know what it looks like but…but is it?”

Arya chewed her lip, her eyes darting between his. _Was it?_ She was a Princess of Winterfell, a Stark. She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be here at all. _Whoever I’m to marry has to accept all of me,_ she thought bitterly. _And Gendry already has._ She kissed him again, and sat up, adjusting her hips so she was kneeling astride him, then began tugging at the laces of her vest. She tore it off, then tugged off the shirt beneath it, as topless now as Gendry so frequently was in the forge. He was watching her, still lying there beneath her, his lips slightly parted, his eyes moving up and down the length of her, taking in her determined expression quite as much as the shape of her breasts. He reached a hand up to touch the scars on her stomach. “What’s this?” he asked her.

“You don’t want to know,” she told him.

“Don’t I?”

But he didn’t press on. He sat up too, and tugged off his shirt, and his arms were around her now as well, and the heat of him was more than she’d expected. His tongue was in her mouth again, and a thumb was brushing across the tip of her breast and was that her gasping? Was it him? She wasn’t sure. But her blood was singing the song of wolves and this time, when she reached a hand down between them to cup his cock, he did not grab her hand. He seemed even bigger now than he had when first she’d done it. Was that even possible? Or was that her maid’s imagination?

And Gendry turned them around so that she was the one lying on her back now, his hands tugging at the laces of her breeches, loosening them. “Is this all right?” he asked her, his hand hovering, and she kissed him as he slid his fingers down between her legs. They were rough against her skin, and dug at her flesh, but when she hissed, “Gentle,” at him he obeyed. He rubbed her so softly now, as though nervous now that she’d chastised him, and it didn’t take long for Arya to realize that it would feel much better if her trousers were off completely. So she released him, and bucked her hips up to pull them down and Gendry caught on to what she was doing and helped her shuck them off the rest of the way and helped her off with her boots as well. He sat there, kneeling for just a moment, looking at her on his bed.

She let her legs fall open a little wider and his eyes were staring right at her slit. He took a deep breath, and then another, and then a third, then began to unlace his own trousers. She watched as he stripped them down his legs, watched as his member popped loose, stiff and huge between his legs. _Surely that can’t fit inside me, can it?_ she wondered, knowing that it could, that it would. A shiver went up and down her spine, and she bit her lip.

Gendry crawled up the length of the bed again resting himself on his elbows on either side of her. Then he leaned on one arm and the other reached down between them and he rubbed, fingers so gentle. Arya’s legs fell open even wider and she hummed slightly, when his fingers found a sweet spot near the top of her slit.

“There?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said, and he focused in on it as she raised her head and kissed him.

It was not long before she was panting and groaning. Gendry had always been good with his hands, a craftsman, and he was good with them against her skin as well. She felt hot and cold all at once, and couldn’t even focus on kissing him because she was too lost in the swirl of his fingers on her cleft. Then he brushed the flat of his thumbnail over it and Arya cried out as her heart began to race in her chest and blood roared in her ears and the skin under Gendry’s hand began to throb.

She raised her hands to his face and kissed him, pulling her hips away from his fingers. The world was soft around her now, and things were right, and she realized that she hadn’t been fair to Gendry because while he’d been rubbing her, she’d just been lying there. Her tongue still twined around his, she reached a hand down and took hold of his manhood.

“It’s so soft,” she said, marveling at the touch of it.

“It’s really not.”

“I meant the skin, stupid,” she said, laughing, and Gendry chuckled and kissed her.

She pumped her hand along it. The tip of it was wet, as though he’d been leaking. Was that normal? She didn’t know. Her cunt had been wet enough under his fingers, and he didn’t seem perturbed by it, so she supposed it was fine. She ran her thumb over the tip of it, gently, circling the wet over him and she heard his breath catch. He kissed his way down her neck, sucking at it as she rubbed his cock. As she did, she felt him leak a little more onto her hand. _It has to be normal,_ she thought. She’d heard plenty of men talking about sex before, why was it that none of them had mentioned that their cocks leaked before they were fully done?

 _Is that enough to get a girl pregnant?_ she wondered, even as Gendry shuddered against her when her thumb flicked along the tip of his cock again. She’d been planning on taking him inside her if he wanted, had been counting on it, really, and had assumed he’d pull out of her when the time came because if she didn’t want to marry, she definitely didn’t want a child. She frowned. She didn’t know, and she doubted that Gendry would either.

But she was feeling reckless tonight, and she kissed his forehead and whispered. “Do you? Want to?”

He stopped kissing her neck at once and sat up to kiss her lips. “Only if you do,” he whispered.

She bit her lip and nodded, and Gendry positioned himself over her, his thumb sliding along her slit. He pressed the tip of his cock into her.

“Gods,” Arya hissed. It _stung_.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Arya said, and with a deep breath, she pushed herself onto him. _Ow._

“Arya,” he said, and he ran a hand over her cheek. She pressed herself against him again and he rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

She kissed him and wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him into her once again. She didn’t think he’d go any deeper into her, and part of her wanted to reach down and see just how much of him hadn’t fit. But she had a suspicion he’d roll his eyes at that, and instead she just held him there, breathing, waiting for the sting to abate as slowly he began to roll his hips against hers.

He started off gentle, which was good. It still stung and gods but it felt strange to have him in there, stretching her out like that. Was it supposed to feel like that? She could only imagine that it was, but all the same, it was distracting. She focused on breathing in time with him. He wasn’t kissing her now. He was watching her face carefully, as though looking for a sign that she’d throw him off. _Nymeria threw off wolves that tried to mount her_ , Arya thought again. She must not have wanted any of them the way that Arya wanted Gendry.

She tightened her legs around his hips and his speed increased ever so slightly. It still felt strange, but it was starting to maybe feel good. She’d not really expected that after the initial sting, for all she knew that women enjoyed this as much as men.

She found she wanted him deeper in her and bent her knees slightly. She shifted her hips as best she could while Gendry was still thrusting.

“Everything all right?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “I just—I want to feel more of you.”

He smirked and bent his lips down to hers. “I’ve heard…” his voice trailed away, as if he wasn’t sure how to say it. Arya had heard too—courtesans in Braavos buying cockles from a little girl named Cat. “ _Ankles up on his shoulders, dearie. That’s what feels best on your clam.”_

So she tucked her knees up and under his arms and Gendry got the idea as she rested her ankles on his broad shoulders and _yes…_

She gasped this time when he thrust into her. It definitely felt good now, and Gendry was going faster, and faster, and faster, and he was groaning and she didn’t realize until he was out of her, shooting seed onto her belly that she’d forgotten to tell him he had to. But of course he’d have done that without her saying so. Of course he’d know.

He collapsed on top of her, her legs sliding back down his side now to cradle around his hips, his seed hot between their stomachs. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her neck again, and she held him close while his breathing and heart slowed.

After a time, he rolled them onto their sides, her curled with her back to his chest. He kept kissing her hair, an arm draped lazily over her hip.

Now that it was over, the stinging between her legs was back, and it went deeper. It was like he’d stretched out everything inside her. The thought made her smile.

After a time, she heard him snoring behind her, very lightly. _I shouldn’t stay here,_ she thought. _Sansa will know that I’m gone and then there’ll be trouble._

Did she care though?

She sat up and looked at Gendry. He was sleeping deeply enough that her movement hadn’t wakened him.

Perhaps if he had, she would have stayed.

But instead she climbed from the bed, hunted around his small bedchamber for her trousers, her shirt. She couldn’t find her vest, though. She’d leave it there, so he’d know it wasn’t a dream. She dressed quickly, tugging on her boots last of all and bent to kiss him. “I did choose you,” she whispered. She prayed he slept long, that he didn’t wake in the night to find she’d gone, that when he woke it was to assume she’d woken first and gone off.

She slipped from his room. She didn’t care if anyone saw her do it, but was glad no one did. _The hardest part is that I do care,_ she thought. _I don’t want to hurt Jon._

She didn’t want to hurt anyone, which only ever meant that she hurt herself. She saw that clearly. What wouldn’t she do for all of them to be happy? She’d pick whichever one made the most sense for Jon, and if Gendry was willing she’d keep loving him as long as he’d let her. He’d hate that, she knew, as much as she did. For a time, though, it might be all right before it ended up hurting both of them too.

Her footsteps did not bring her back to her bedchamber, though—not the room she shared with Sansa nor the room she’d shared with Bran and Rickon while Sansa had been away. Instead she found herself going out of the castle.

It was frightfully cold, but her blood was warm and the wolves were out there so she was not worried for it. And surrounded by the trees of the godswood, the wind wasn’t so bad. The steam off the hot spring was almost warming for her.

She stood before the heart tree and stared at the face. When was the last time she’d been in here without coming to find Bran? When was the last time she’d prayed?

_I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth._

Yes, that was it. In Harrenhal. _Valar morghulis._ Had it really not been since then? _You told me you could be strong._

_Did you have to take Bran too? Wasn’t father and mother and Robb enough? Did you have to take Bran?_

_He wants it,_ a voice in the back of her mind said, _He said he wants it._

 _He also said he hates himself,_ she berated the voice. “Did you do that to him?” she asked the gods. “Did you make him hate himself? Is that how you do it? Make people feel unworthy until they can’t let go of you?”

She could imagine her father’s face if he heard her saying that. She remembered Jaqen H’ghar at Harrenhal. _“The Gods are not mocked.”_

“I’m not mocking you,” she said to them. He wasn’t really Jaqen H’ghar, though, and his god hadn’t taken her when she’d left Braavos. “I’m asking—is this how you do it? Are you any better than him of many faces, or is that all gods do—take and take and take.” She swallowed. She thought of Gendry, and how he’d kissed her. She thought of Jon, and how the red woman had breathed life back into him. She thought of Daenerys on dragonback, of riding Nymeria, of Bran leaning, resting his head against the tree in the godswood as though it would calm him.

“You make them need you,” she said. “Need you until there’s no way out.

“I found a way out though.” She stood again—stood tall, with her shoulders squared, her spine as straight as Needle. “I found a way out of Braavos—Bran will find his way out of you, you old gods. You don’t get to keep my brother.”

 _Arya._ She turned around. “Who’s there?”

_No one._

Her heart twisted at the words, and anger flared.

She rounded on the tree again. “Is this some kind of game to you?” she demanded, “Making me hear things? I want my brother back.”

“ _You’d understand if you could see it too._ ”

“Bran?”

But there was no one there.

She stared at the face of the tree, and the thought occurred to her.

“So show me, you gods,” she snarled.

And she reached—not for Nymeria’s skin—but for the tree’s.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are going to be a little bit shorter I think than the previous ones. It was either break them up this way or bombard with The Longest Chapter Ever and I decided on the former.
> 
> In other news _I'm so excited to be posting this chapter_.

Bran

_He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled on their points. He was desperately afraid._

He didn’t fall now. He had not fallen in years. _You will never walk again, but you will fly._

Flying wasn’t flying, though. Not the way that the three-eyed crow had told him it would be. There was flight in the skin of ravens, and then there was floating like a leaf in the wind, in the swirling eddies of time. That was less like flying—more like swimming, the way his mother had taught him when he was a little boy in the hot springs of the godswood of Winterfell.

_Come on, Bran. Breathe in and out. Breathe in and out, see how your body floats on the water? Now kick._

Bran kicked out with useless legs. He could kick in here, kick in time to his beating heart, in time to the winter winds rattling the windows of the castle, could kick in time, in time, in time.

 _Fly little boy, if you can. You can’t escape me. I’ll live on forever if you aren’t careful. That’s what we gods do._ He had an eye that smiled where blue lips did not move at all. Bran wanted to scream at him. _You died! You died you’re_ dead _and you won’t live on forever!_

_Fly, or else you’ll drown._

So why was his smiling eye still there in dreams?

_But rises again, harder, stronger…_

_Was he a god? One of the old gods too, now?_

He heard the howl of the wolf cutting clearly through the magic like a knife through silk. His eyes flickered for a moment and he heard footsteps.

“How long was she out there?”

“Is hot water coming? It will heat her up the fastest.”

“What _happened_?”

“Will she die?” A whisper so small that no one heard it but Bran. A whisper from a half-boy voice, afraid that the older and wiser people around him would hear. But he wasn’t afraid to whisper it to Bran. They shared a bed, after all, and shared memories of Winterfell from before it burned. _Not dead. Just broken. Like me._

_She was staring at the face of the weirwood tree, a determined blaze in her eyes. Her hair was messy and she was wearing only an undershirt and trousers. She was staring right at him, could she see him the way he could see her?_

_Her eyes rolled and she collapsed and Bran_ yelled.

“Arya!” He sat bolt upright in the bed, _Arya Flint, old and dying beneath the tree, her daughter singing to her, but not this Arya—that was a different Arya, not his sister, not_ “ARYA!”

Rickon bolted from the bed, looking terrified and at the sound of Bran’s shout, Sansa appeared in the doorway as Rickon tore past her. When had she returned? She had gone south. _She lost her wolf_ , but no—here she was, here to tell him it was all a bad dream, that everything was all right, that the demons of the dark wouldn’t touch him if he hid beneath his blankets.

Arya had wheeled him out to greet her.

“Bran,” she hurried to him and reached a hand for him. “Bran, what did you see, what do you—”

“Is that Arya? Are they bringing in Arya?”

Sansa nodded, her eyes bright with nerves and Bran let out an agonized howl, the howl of a wolf. _Only one man in a thousand is born a skinchanger, and only one skinchanger in a thousand can be a greenseer._

_Only one in a thousand_

_And she tried to_

He tugged at his hair, and Sansa grabbed at his wrists. “No,” she said firmly. “Don’t—”

Bran yelled again, and outside he heard the howling of wolves again, as if matching him in song. Nymeria and Summer, howling because they _knew_ , Summer would remember this and Nymeria would know that something was wrong.

“I need to go to the tree,” Bran said.

“Bran it’s the middle of the night,” Sansa said.

“The wolves will keep me warm.”

“Bran—please.”

He looked at her desperately, she had to understand, why didn’t she understand? “I need to help her,” he begged.

Sansa swallowed.

Someone moved in the doorway and he saw Lady Brienne, watching the two of them. She was tall, and strong, like Hodor had been, and Bran wasn’t heavy. He barely ate and had no muscles left in his legs they’d wasted away years ago after he’d fallen.

_I never fall._

After Jaime Lannister had thrown him.

“Please,” he said to her. “Please take me to the godswood.”

Ser Brienne looked at Sansa, and Sansa looked at Bran. A moment later Brienne was crossing the room. She scooped Bran up as easily as if he were still a child, and Sansa grabbed all the furs from his and Rickon’s bed and followed the two of them down the stairs. Behind them, Bran could hear Jon sobbing.

He’d never heard his brother cry before.

Everything hurt so much when you weren’t floating like a leaf on a brook. He wanted to run to Jon, but he had no legs. He wanted to cry, because he remembered other strong arms around him _all my fault all my FAULT!_ but the icy wind on his face froze the tears in place. He wanted to howl with the wolves—and he did. He let out a howl as loud as he could, and the wolves joined him and when he arrived in the godswood, Brienne set him down at the foot of the tree.

Bran, knowing the stuff of power, crawled to the spot where Arya had fallen to the ground and he dove into the tree.

It was dark, but Bran was unafraid—at least not of the dark. It was cold, but his heart was pumping life through him and he didn’t know where or when he was going, but he was flying now—flying good and proper—and the blood roaring in his ears sounded like Summer.

“Should we go back inside?” he heard Brienne ask Sansa.

“I don’t know,” his sister wept. He felt her sink down next to him, felt her wrap her arms around him, felt the way her body shook against him as she sobbed. She was closer than she’d ever been before and he knew one thing: he could not let go of her. If he did, habit might take over and he could not allow for that, not now, not when Arya needed him.

His hand tightening on his sister’s arm. Somewhere, deep down inside, he sensed it. Some _it_ that he’d not sensed there before.

A sister who’d had a direwolf once too.

_Her direwolf died and the muscle wasted like my leg muscles after my back broke._

But magic wasn’t muscles. Lord Brynden had grabbed his magic once, and Bran grabbed at the weak flickering flame that was Sansa’s because somehow, _somehow_ he knew that was what he must try to do.

He heard Sansa gasp. _I have you_ , he thought he told her. _I have you, it’s all right._

“Sansa!” He heard Brienne yell out, frightened, but that was when Bran dove even further in the dark.

Sansa struggled against him, but if she was taller and stronger than he was, her body whole and unbroken, his magic was like the ocean compared to her raindrop. “Trust me,” he thought he told her, and she grew still. _Hold me. I’ll hold you._

_I love you._

And he dove—dove deeper into the magic than he had ever gone before, deeper than dreams, deeper than nightmares.

* * *

* * *

 

Jon

She was so small like this.

Jon couldn’t look away from her.

Her lips were pink again, thank the gods, but none of the blood had flowed back into her cheeks. They’d sunk her into a bathtub full of hot water to get the cold out of her limbs. _What_ _had she been doing out there without her furs?_ Her eyes remained closed, and her breathing was so subtle that more than once Maester Wolkan held a mirror beneath her nose to see signs of breath.

“Is she worsening?” Jon asked the maester after the commotion in Bran’s and Rickon’s room had died down.

Rickon was curled up on the bed next to Arya, holding her. And gods only knew where Sansa was.

A flash of anger filled him. Where was she? Didn’t she care?

Outside, he heard the howling of the wolves.

They’d howled when Bran had fallen, and Bran had lived. He remembered that from before he’d left for the Wall, all those years before.

He stood up and as he did so, he realized that Dany was standing by the window. Guilt wracked him: he hadn’t known she was in the room at all, so focused had he been on his little sister. He looked at her. She had refused to speak with him after she’d left the hall, had barred the door to Lady Catelyn’s old chambers against him, an act of symbolism he wondered if she was aware of. But there was no sign of anger in her face now. Her gaze was gentle. He bit back tears and turned to the window, and opened it.

The howling of the wolves came through that much more clearly.

“Are you mad?” Dany hissed at him, reaching for the latch to pull the window closed again. “She’ll freeze.”

“She needs to hear the wolves,” he said, and he saw Dany understood. She knew the power of dragon song, how could she not know the power of the wolves? He loved her for it.

He took her in his arms, and held her tightly, and she squeezed him as well. She didn’t say a word—no comforting _she’ll be all right,_ no anything. She just held him as long as he needed to hold her. He had stared at an army of Others armed with his sword and nothing more and he’d not been afraid.

How could he have been? Arya was with him, on the back of her wolf, her face hard with determination as Daenerys rode the skies overhead.

He did not want to cry again. When he’d cried, Rickon had cried, and when Rickon cried it all seemed real. He could pretend for a moment that Arya, lying on that bed was just asleep, as she had been so many years before when he’d read stories to her and tucked her in because Old Nan was telling bedtime stories to Bran and Rickon. Arya, his little sister, his beloved little sister.

He let go of Dany and went back to his seat by Arya’s side. He couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t be parted from her, couldn’t at all—

“What on…” he heard Dany say behind him, and his head twitched for half a heartbeat. Then he felt her come and press a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll be back,” she promised, and she was gone.

* * *

* * *

 

Daenerys

She had seen people in the godswood.

No, not people.

She had seen Brienne carrying Bran into the godswood with Sansa close behind them. And Daenerys knew one thing: she would not watch Arya die if it meant she could try and help whatever it was that Bran was trying to do to save her. Because what else could he be doing? She had heard him screaming for his sister in the commotion of them bringing her up to her bedchamber.

Dany nearly tripped over Gendry, sitting on the floor just outside of the bedroom door. He was in his shirtsleeves and his gaze was empty. He looked up at her forlornly, and Daenerys said before even knowing what she was saying— “Well? Go in to her then.” And she was gone, tearing into the bedchamber that had once belonged to Lady Catelyn and pulling on the furs that Jon had had made for her when she’d come north, and her hrakkar.

She paused and looked around the room. Had Arya been born here? And Bran, and Sansa? _Wherever you are, Lady Catelyn, watch over them._ She didn’t know anything about Lady Catelyn save noticing the way that Jon bit his tongue about her, and how Arya’s eyes went dead at the mention of her. _The mother protects her children, doesn’t she?_ Hadn’t her mother tried to protect her and Viserys before she’d died? She had tried to protect her dragons as well—tried and failed.

She ran back out into the hallway. Gendry was no longer seated on the floor but she didn’t look to see if he’d gone into the bedchamber as she hurried down the stairs of the keep and ran out into the snow.

The godswood was anything but silent when she got there. The wolves were so loud, so very loud, and it was as if their howling had stirred the wind, making the icy branches of the trees crackle in the night. Ahead of her, the white weirwood’s skeletal branches were etched against the sky like a warning. _The moon is full._ Someone—Daario?—had once told her a full moon meant that the night was for lovers.

She reached Brienne standing sentinel over Bran and Sansa.

“What’s happening?” Daenerys asked her.

“We brought him out here,” Brienne replied, “and then he grabbed Sansa and they both went still. The last thing he said to her was ‘trust me,’ and I think she did.”

Brienne had draped furs over the both of them and Dany looked about for signs of the wolves. She could hear them howling, could even sometimes hear the sound of them running, circling through the trees. She wrapped her arms around her middle and closed her eyes, and wished that her dragons were still alive.

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa

 _She felt so numb and dreamy._ _My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel._

Was this what Bran had lived these past years?

Sansa clung to him, afraid.


	16. Chapter 16

Bran

_I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them._

In the swirls of time, Bran moved easily. Once he’d known every nook and cranny of Winterfell, climbed the walls of the castle, sure of hand and surer of foot. It was not like that though.

Time is not rock.

Time is older.

And Bran was young—too young to know all of time, though in the past years he had tried to learn it. _The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it._ Bran did his best to stay clear of the past this time, and even the frothing bubbles of futures that might be. Instead he spread his wings and _flew_.

He scanned the heaving whorls. The whorls reached out to touch him, grabbing at the brightness that was him. Beside him, Sansa shrieked.

_Do not be afraid. They cannot hurt you if you are with me. I will keep you high enough._

Sansa’s grip on his arm was tighter than it ever had been. She was sobbing now, and when Bran looked at her, she had closed her eyes; he could see that in the moonlight.

 _Closing your eyes won’t keep it out. It makes it_ “stronger.”

Sansa opened her eyes and saw him looking at her. _There. Like that._ “I have you.”

“Bran,” she whispered. “What is going on?”

 _I haven’t got_ “Time.”

He hovered over time, an albatross who never flapped its wings, who could fly for months on the wind with great wide wings. He stretched out his magic like a net and dropped.

_Arya. I named her Arya, Ned. For your grandmother._

_Sing for me, Lyarra. I’d hear your voice as I go._

_Would you have a wandering wolf?_

But that was the wrong Arya, Bran thought. It started out right, but went wrong. That’s where he’d gone wrong. _My fault_ , he thought.

_Don’t you dare hate yourself, Bran. I love you too much to let you do that._

He stared out through time and thought he saw it, thought he saw it. He called to her again, but she was too deep, sinking, sinking, sinking. “Arya!”

He heard the wolf howling her angry howl, her howl of pain. Her pack was far, running off with Shaggy because his human needed it, but she had wanted to stay with her girl and now this.

“Arya, can you hear me? Please!” He called into the snow, but she was too far down.

Bran let out a howl too.

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa

Sansa did not know how to know what she was seeing.

She was not a stupid person, though Joffrey had told her so so often, and Cersei too. Petyr had called her clever and she’d liked that, but she had no words for whatever it was that was happening.

She left her eyes open ever since Bran had spoken. That made it better. Easier. She could see the godswood, illuminated by the full moon, could see the tree before her. But everything was different, too. It was brighter, but not a brightness that came in through her eyes. It was more colorful, but colorful that seemed to come in through her ears.

She could smell the wind of the godswood crackling overhead and she could hear the greens of summer, could taste soft wolf fur wrapped around a dying woman, could smell the grey of her hair, could see the words of the song her daughter was singing to her.

She saw her mother’s voice and wanted to call out to her, but she was gone.

She wanted to let go of Bran, wanted to get up and run to Brienne, to wrap her arms around her and sob because she understood that she could never understand and it frightened her far more than whatever was happening to Arya. Perhaps because she recognized—among all the things she could not recognize—that this was happening to Arya.

_Except Arya doesn’t have Bran with her._

_“Trust me_ ,” he’d said.

So she did not let him go. She held him close and kept her eyes open, only closing them to blink when she absolutely had to, watched as her brother seemed to fly like a bird like an eagle. _Little talking bird,_ a voice rasped in her ear, _repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite._

She thought to pray, but couldn’t remember the words. Did prayer even matter when there was this?

Bran was spreading green out beneath him, deep into the earth except it didn’t go into the earth, it went into whatever it was that he was seeing, the green of summer, and she heard him calling “Arya! Arya can you hear me!”

 _She’s in the castle,_ Sansa wanted to say as Bran started to howl. “She can’t hear you.”

What could he see? What did he know that she didn’t. _Everything._

 _Why?_ She wanted to beg him. _Why do you need me? Please let me go I’m frightened._

But she didn’t want to let go of him, truly. He was _Bran_ , it was the magic she was afraid of. And she did not dare ask. She did not dare distract him.

He was darting forward, her brother, as if hopping across stones, as if he were hopping across rooves the way he’d done when he was small. He was so beautiful when he ran without running, he flew without flying he bent down to press his ear into the swirls, to listen, again. Some of _it_ got caught in his beard, but he did not seem to care. Sansa saw that some of _it_ was attached to the hem of her gown. He was far ahead of her now.

He still held her arm.

“Should I come with you?” she asked and he turned to look at her, and his blue eyes were terrible, full of flame and frost, full of power. His eyes were her eyes too. Hers and Rickon’s and Robb’s and mother’s. Could they see everything she had seen? Everything they all had seen?

He nodded to her wordlessly and she tried to follow. She did not have his grace in hopping, and didn’t know if she truly was. She felt her legs move, but she did not move. She took deep breaths. _Bran’s legs aren’t moving but he is moving,_ she thought. She tried again, but did not move. And again. And again.

 _I don’t have magic,_ she thought wearily. _I can’t do this._

She sat down. She was already sitting down, lying pressed into the snow, into her brother. Up ahead, her brother was bending down towards _it_ again, and he let out another wolf’s howl, a long “Nooooooooooooooooo,” that ripped through his throat, so loudly next to her and far away all at once. “No, no, no!”

Then he went still—not the dead still she feared—a heavy breathing still. Next to her, her brother raised his head and looked at the tree, his eyes white and unseeing, white and seeing _everything._

* * *

* * *

 

Brienne

Brienne was used to the cracking of woods. Trees cracked sometimes. When she’d been a girl, she’d been frightened it would mean the trees of Tarth would all fall. Her father had said that it meant that they lived.

The cracking she heard didn’t sound like life, though. The cracking she heard sounded like quite the opposite.

“Gods be good,” she breathed at the same time that Daenerys Targaryen yelled next to her.

The great weirwood, thousands of years old and holy in this house of the Starks was ripping open, splitting itself right down the middle, cracking right down the holy seeing face that the children of the forest had carved there so many thousands of years before. It was no even woodsman’s cut either, but a shattering of bone, and from within she saw blood pouring out.

_Not blood. Sap._

The branches on either side sunk down into the ground and behind her, she heard the wolves let out frightened barks. The smaller of the two—Bran’s wolf—ran towards the tree, towards his man, growling at the wood as though it were trying to attack Bran.

“We need to move them,” Daenerys said. “If it falls on them—”

“No,” she heard Bran say and they both turned to him. His eyes weren’t white now, his head was twisted and he was looking right at them. There was sap on his face. Sap had come pouring out of the tree, creating a frozen river on the snow, and had washed towards Bran’s face. It covered his lips and cheeks and beard and he was licking at it, horribly, tongue sliding out of his mouth to dig it from the hair on his face. “Blood,” he said.

Then he let out another howl, and Summer howled and at the base of the keep tower, where she had gone to be as close to Arya as she could, Nymeria began to howl again too.

Bran turned away from them, burying his face in the sap again, nuzzling it as if he were a pup suckling at his mother’s teat.

Brienne turned to Daenerys. She was still staring at Bran, her face perfectly still and her eyes… Brienne did not know how to describe the look in her eyes—caught between understanding and disbelief perhaps.

“What sort of blood?” Brienne asked her. She knew the answer—how could she not, but she could not bear to think it and perhaps Daenerys knew another way. She had ridden dragons. She knew something of blood magic.

Daenerys looked at her sadly. “Mine,” she nodded at the sword at Brienne’s waist, the sword that Ser Jaime had given her.

“My lady, I _can’t_.”

“Not enough to kill me,” said Daenerys. Her voice sounded empty, yet determined. “But enough to be enough. Not my throat. My…my arm maybe. Both of them for good measure.” With trembling hands, she began to roll up her sleeves but they wouldn’t go past her elbows. She took a deep breath and began to reach into her furs to unlace her bodice.

“My lady, I can’t.”

“You must. I command it.”

“I swore to Lady Catelyn that I would protect her daughters. Let me do it instead. Blood is blood, I can give it.”

“You must protect them,” Daenerys agreed. “And if I swing the sword, I may cut too deep and kill you before I can fetch help. It must be my blood.” She was wriggling her arms out of her bodice now, pale breasts bared to the moon and her arms sticking out of her cloak in front of Brienne, some horrid sacrifice. “I have the dragon’s blood,” she said. “Please,” her voice changed. “They’re my family too. I must help how I can. For Arya.” And Brienne saw in her eyes that she meant, _for Jon,_ too _._

Brienne swallowed and drew Oathkeeper. _Oathkeeper,_ she thought. _This wasn’t supposed to be how I kept that vow._ She looked at Sansa.

Her lady had stopped sobbing but she was still clinging to Bran, her face buried against his chest as he suckled at the weirwood sap.

“When it’s done,” Brienne told Daenerys, “I will run for the castle. I will fetch the maester and bring him down to get you.”

She saw frightened determination in Daenerys’ eyes. “You must keep yourself warm,” she added. “And if he gets enough blood, you must try and staunch the bleeding.”

Daenerys nodded. Then she turned and moved closer to Bran and Sansa, kneeling down in the snow beside them.

Brienne knelt too. She held Oathkeeper against Daenerys Targaryen’s moonlit skin, and cut.


	17. Chapter 17

Gendry

Gendry saw the tree crack open.

“Lord of light!” he yelled and Jon and Rickon turned to him, Rickon raising himself up on his elbows. “The tree just…”

Rickon clambered from the bed and came to the window, as did the maester. Jon did not move.

“Gods be good,” Maester Wolkan said, making a sign of the seven over his chest. The wolves had stopped their howling, they were barking, and illuminated in the godswood below by the great full moon overhead, he saw sap flowing like blood towards the people on the ground.

“Bran did it,” Rickon whispered. “Bran did it. He broke the neck, remember?”

Gendry didn’t remember, and when he looked down at Rickon, he was chewing his lip.

The way that Arya always chewed hers.

Gendry turned away from the window and looked at her. They’d wrapped her in furs, so many that her head was poking out and her arms, but nothing else. Jon was holding her hand, holding it so tightly that his knuckles were white with his grip. He did not look away from her, and Gendry could not see his face. Gendry did not want to see his face. He feared that whatever he saw there would be mirrored in his own.

Rickon went back and climbed onto the bed next to Arya too, curling around her and burying his face in her neck. Gendry closed his eyes.

He had woken to the howling of the wolves, preparing to jokingly tell Arya to make them shut up so they could sleep. But she’d been gone. She’d been gone, and there was something wrong because now that he’d awakened he’d never heard a wolf howling like _that_ before. He’d fumbled for his clothes in the dark and found her vest among them. She’d been in a hurry, had probably woken up the moment they’d begun and had gone to see what was going on.

He’d come across them as they were bringing her upstairs, shouting for hot water and he couldn’t remember what had happened between that moment and when he was sitting on the floor and Daenerys had commanded that he go in to her. He couldn’t remember—had he lost his mind, fearing that she’d died? He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her whispering, nervously, that she’d choose him, the way her tongue felt against his, the way he’d felt buried within her flesh.

And now she was dying.

He couldn’t bear that thought, couldn’t bear it at all. Arya was the only one who’d ever come back for him, and now she was dying and there wasn’t even a way for him to talk to her about it properly because her brothers were there and anything Gendry could say would mean they’d have to hear him too. _You chose me, remember?_ He’d tell her if he could. _That means choosing to live. So live, damn you. Please. Live._

He wanted to cry, but he didn’t let himself. He was a stronger man than that, had been through hell and back just like she’d been. But if he was to cry over anything, it’d be over losing her.

And to think he’d been happy that night, falling asleep with her in his arms, just like he’d dreamed.

 _Stupid_.

The thought came in her voice.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and Brienne of Tarth sprinted through the door. She was covered in blood. “Maester,” she said, “I know you’re needed here, and I’ll bring you back shortly, but I need you in the godswood.”

“What’s happened?” Jon Snow asked her, his voice somewhere between sharp and empty.

“Blood,” Brienne said, then she cleared her throat. “That is to say—the lady Daenerys. She…she gave her blood.”

The maester crossed the room, picking up his case. “I’ll return shortly.” Jon rose too and made to cross the room. “What the…” he stared at his hand. “I can’t let go of her.” He tugged at his arm, as if trying to pull it loose from the jaws of a wolf. “I can’t move my hand.”

Rickon let out a gasp. “I can’t either,” he said. He was clinging to Arya’s arm with both of his. He stared at Jon, then at the maester, who now looked stricken. But to everyone’s surprise, Rickon smiled. “Bran,” he said. “It’s Bran,” and he turned to face his sister again.

Jon looked between his sister and brother and the maester, then said, “Go. Come back when it’s…when it’s safe. When she’s…”

Brienne and the maester disappeared.

When Gendry could no longer hear their footsteps on the stairs, Jon let out a yell—not a frightened cry but the sort of yell one let out in battle, long and loud and angry so as not to be frightened, his free hand tugging at his hair in anguish. Rickon joined him, and Gendry…Gendry took a deep breath and did as well.

* * *

* * *

Bran

It tasted sweet, the sap of the tree.

It tasted like home.

He kept drinking at it, long after the salt and fire taste of the blood had gone away.

The blood was strong. He’d not expected it to be so hot.

He drank. The more of it he drank the more alive he felt, the more whole he felt, ever bit of him prickling and sparking. Surely, if he kept drinking, he could walk. _You’ll never walk again. But you will fly._

The wolves howled. Sansa was crying again. She did not like the sap, did not like the blood, did not like where she saw the blood coming from, the great gaping wounds cut across Daenerys Targaryen’s arms and breast. But she could not move. Bran had locked her arm to his when first the sap had touched his lips. When the blood had come, he could reach further and locked Jon and Rickon to Arya. He needed them all. It was better that Rickon and Jon were with Arya. They had stronger magic than Sansa, a lake or a hotspring, perhaps a river of sweet water across salt flats, to Sansa’s raindrop.

He didn’t need as much as Arya did. Arya needed rivers, needed seas.

He only needed a raindrop.

He kept drinking as he flew now on albatross wings, flew over the spot where he could see her. He could see _into_ it now, without seeing it. He turned to Sansa.

“Hold me,” he told her.

“I am holding you,” she said tearfully. She wanted it to stop, she wanted it to end, she wanted to go and cry and wash the blood off her.

_Don’t let go._

_She can’t let go._

_You won’t let her._

_You use and you use and you use and look what happened to Hodor!_ Was that Meera shrieking at him? Had she come back? Or was that memory?

 _Is that not what we gods do? We use them. They are nothing to us,_ blinked the smiling eye. _You know this. They know it too. Your heart is too soft, too weak for this. You’ll never know true power._

_Don’t you dare hate yourself, Bran._

He focused on Arya.

He kept drinking. The waters did not part for him, but they did become like crystal. She was sinking. Her eyes were closed—all three of them. _Arya,_ he called to her with a red voice, a bloody voice, a blood and sap voice. She did not hear him.

 _Arya!_ he called again.

Beside him, Sansa was trembling as she wept.

_Of course._

_I need to open my mouth._

He was still using it to drink.

“Arya!” he called into the sap and remnant blood and this time she stirred. “Yes, that’s right. Arya. Can you hear me?”

Somewhere, miles away or perhaps only a few hundred feet, her lips twitched. “Arya, it’s me! It’s Bran, your brother.” _Just like you wanted._ “Can you hear me?”

She was still sinking, and Bran looked at Sansa again. _Hold me_ , he thought he said, and he dove in.

It was darker down here where Arya was sinking. Darker and bloodier. He remembered those times too, remembered hardened men and women who slit throats before the trees. Men forget, but trees remember, and Bran was neither man nor tree.

Bran was all of time.

He reached out to her, not with his net, but with his hand, but he could not reach her. He called to her again. “Arya,” it was a whisper not in the wind, a whisper across water, across the snow she’d fallen on. “It’s me, it’s Bran. Arya, come back to me.”

 _Please, Bran,_ she had begged.

 _Drown in it, and let me be reborn, let yourself be reborn,_ whispered the Crow’s Eye. But he’d never said that before. Not once in all their battles, in all his madness.

“If you come with me, I’ll never leave you again, I promise, I swear it.”

_The bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled…_

Her eyelids fluttered, but he did not see the silver grey eyes of the Starks. It was her third eye that opened to him then and it was blue—not a Tully blue, or even blue like the sky, but blue like the ocean, swirling grey and steel. “That’s right,” he whispered. “Swim, Arya.” _Fly or die!_ “Swim with me. Swim with me like mother taught us.” _Do not think of mother in the water, dead and mottled. Do not think of your sword through her heart. Think of her hands under your back, her hair brushing your cheeks._

_Breathe in and out, see how your body floats on the water?_

She began to kick.

“Yes, that’s right. Kick now. Come on. Kick towards me.” She kept kicking, rising. He heard her start to moan, making deep, shuddering breaths. She was so close. _Hold out your hand, I have you. I will not let you fall. Hear the howling of wolves and swim with me, sister._

He could feel her grasping fingers with his third eye and he grabbed her, grabbed her fingers, grabbed her wrist, grabbed her arm and pulled, pulled her up and up, pulled her up to where Sansa was holding him, pulled her up higher than that, higher and higher with the wings of a bird, the wings of a god. Her eyes were still closed but her third eye watched him and he let out a whoop a howl and he carried her up to the tower and laid her gently in her brothers’ arms. He kissed her on her open eye and she shuddered, and coughed, and the blue eye closed and the silver ones opened.

Down below in the godswood, a broken boy began to laugh.

* * *

* * *

Jon

Jon felt something run through his arm and up his spine, something that shook and didn’t shake.

As soon as it happened, it was gone, and he looked at Rickon, who had sat up too. “Did you feel that?” he asked his brother. His throat was raw from yelling. Rickon nodded.  

Jon turned to look at his little sister and it was only for a moment that her eyes were open but he saw them. He saw them take the room in, take in him and Rickon holding onto her as if they were holding on to life itself, took in Gendry, standing at the foot of the bed.

Then her eyes closed again and she retched.

Rickon pushed her towards Jon so that she retched over the edge of the bed, rubbing her back. She was choking and gasping and there was blood in the sick.

When she stopped she shuddered and sunk back down onto the bed, onto the furs, her eyes closed.

There was color in her cheeks again.

Jon squeezed her hand and found he could release it again.

He looked around and saw Gendry pass him a bowl of water and a cloth.

Jon dipped the cloth in water and began to wipe the sick away.

* * *

* * *

Sansa

It all faded. Whatever it was, it faded, and Bran was laughing. Whooping.

And she could let go of him.

Sansa got to her knees, trembling, and crawled across the snow to where Daenerys was lying.

Daenerys was a pale woman but with the slash across her arms and chest, the blood that was soaking her clothing, caking her skin, she looked even paler. The gash was horrible to look at, but Sansa found she could. It was no worse than the lance that had gorged the knight at the Hand’s Tourney, no worse than Sandor’s burned face.

Sansa found the thin fabric of her nightdress beneath her cloak and tore at it, pressing it against Daenerys’ skin.

 _Sisters,_ she thought as she ripped more fabric. Bran was still laughing behind her, wasn’t he? She could hear him, but he seemed so far away as she ripped and wound. Shouldn’t she be shaking? Her hands were so steady. _She’s to be my sister too._ Was she to have saved one sister that night and lost the other?

She felt someone kneel beside her. “Princess, allow me,” said the maester’s voice and Sansa’s hands dropped to her side. He examined the binding, then added more, sturdier linen than the light fabric that Sansa wore to bed.

“Ser, if you’d be so good,” Maester Wolkan said, and Brienne crouched down and lifted Daenerys into her arms, following the maester out of the godswood with her.

It was just her and Bran now.

He had stopped laughing.

“You broke the gods,” Sansa said, nodding to the weirwood.

“They broke me,” he replied, his eyes ablaze. Sansa saw a slow smile creep across his face. She had not seen that smile in years and how she’d dreamed of it.

Sansa had no tears left in her body after her terror, but if she had she’d have burst into tears there and then looking at her brother’s smile. It was warm, and it was _Bran_ , and he was there, he was really there with her, and what did it matter if his beard was matted with blood and sap now. She threw herself back down next to him and pulled him into her arms and hugged him as tightly as she could.

“Bran,” she whispered. “Bran, Bran, Bran,” she chanted his name, as if it were a prayer. But it didn’t need to be a prayer. He was back.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

And now Sansa was laughing—hysterical laughter not because it was funny but because she was relieved. Bran had done it—she’d seen him place Arya with her third blue eye into Jon’s and Rickon’s arms. He’d done it and he was here and now with her, and not…

“Were you drowning in it?” she asked him.

“Hm?”

“Before—when you weren’t…when you were here, but not here.”

Bran blinked at her slowly. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to say it,” he said at last.

“I can try to understand,” Sansa said. “I…I saw it. I know at least now to know what I don’t know.”

“It’s not that,” Bran whispered. He swallowed.

“What is it then?”

“There are things better left unsaid. We all have them. I know you do.”

She froze. Then she narrowed her eyes. “What do you know?”

“Only that you do, not what. I know what Arya’s is, but it’s better left unsaid.”

 _If it’s half so bad as Robert, then he is right,_ she thought.

She ran her hand over his cheek. “Your face is all messy,” she said, “It’s like when you were a boy eating blackberries.”

Bran grinned at her. “A boy? I still eat blackberries that way.”

Sansa laughed. It was a strangled sound, not a full laugh. But it was less hysterical now at least. She ran her hands over the snow. Most of it was sappy and red. She was sure that she was covered in sap too. _And blood._ She shuddered and looked to the castle. _Is she all right? Did the maester come in time? Did I wrap her up in time? Did too much blood flow to keep her warm?_

She thought of Jon, stabbed through the heart by his own men. He’d bled cold into the snow. Had Daenerys been cold? Had she been frightened? She hadn’t said a word while she waited for Brienne to bring the maester, while Bran worked his magic and shouted, while Sansa had wept.

“Don’t mourn her yet,” Bran said quietly and she looked at him. “If you do, I must. She’s not dead yet.”

“Are you sure?”

He did not reply. He wasn’t sure. But she’d still been breathing when Sansa had tried to bind her wounds and then the maester had come. That was something, surely. Enough?

She found a clear patch of snow and her lips twitched as she balled some of it into her hands. She turned back to Bran and smushed the snowball into his face.

“Sansa!” he yelped, and then his eyes flashed and he threw himself sideways and grabbed more snow.

“No!” she said, “I was trying to get your face clean.” But he was already rubbing the snow into her hair and she shrieked with laughter because it was _cold_ but she hadn’t had a proper snow fight in years and had never thought to have one with Bran ever again.

“Don’t start a fight you can’t win,” Bran teased as Sansa shook the snow from her hair.

Sansa leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He tasted of sap, and blood, but he smelled of Bran.


	18. Chapter 18

Jon

The wolves had stopped howling, but Arya was still breathing. Her skin was pallid—she looked more feverish than not. It was a sickness that looked alive, not dead.

She had not opened her eyes since she’d retched, but she had shifted in her sleep. Arya had never liked lying on her back, but rather slept curled on her side as much as she could. The furs wrapped around her were tight, but she made a noise and made to turn herself towards Rickon, to sleep on her side.

Jon inhaled slowly, shakily. _Surely that means she’s all right, that she’ll live._ He could move his hand now. If Rickon had been right, if Bran had locked him to his little sister, surely he shouldn’t have been able to do that, unless she was all right.

Rickon pulled Arya’s face against his chest and held her there.

“Is she feverish?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” Rickon, pressing his hand to her forhead.

Too hot was better than too cold, wasn’t it? Where was the maester?

_With Dany._

Jon stood. “I—” he looked at Rickon, at Gendry who was standing there, tall and brooding, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t know how to say it, but sensed he didn’t need to say all of it. “Dany.”

“I’ll keep her warm,” Rickon said firmly. “She’s all right now. I know it.”

Jon was less certain, but his brother’s faith in Bran was enough to make him nod. “I’ll send someone to clean this up,” he said, gesturing to the bloody sick. He turned to Gendry, “Sit, please. Sit with her while I’m gone.”

Gendry’s head jerked a nod and Jon left the room. He had not heard them come up the stairs to Daenerys’ room and the door was, indeed, ajar. He saw Irri and Jhiqui in there, sitting on the bed. “Is she all right?” Jhiqui asked. It took him a moment to realize they were asking about Arya. “I think so,” he said. He steadied himself. He couldn’t not tell them. “Dany was hurt. I’m going to find her.”

Irri sat up a little straighter but Jhiqui was already climbing from the bed. She grabbed her cloak and threw another one to Irri and the two of them came after him, following him down to the godswood.

Daenerys was not there, though. He saw her blood—gods, so much blood, he was going to be sick—but not her. He did see Bran and Sansa, though, huddled in furs, blood and…

He had not seen the tree and he froze, staring at it, rent the way it was, splintered right down the middle, right through the face. His father had prayed to that tree, Bran had climbed it as a boy, Sansa had gone there for comfort during the war. _That cannot be good_ , he thought.

“It still lives,” Bran said, and Jon almost jumped out of his skin. His brother was watching him and there was sap in his red beard, and something darker. _He drank it._ “It’s not strong, but it lives. I may be able to pull it back together, but I’m tired now, and don’t think I should. Death must pay for life, and…” his voice trailed away. He saw Jon’s face. “They will have brought her to the hall, I think. He needed a table and it is closer than taking her all the way up the stairs.”

Jon made to turn, and took several steps before looking back at his brother. “Do you need to be brought back inside, or would you like to stay out here?” he asked carefully. He did not want Bran to freeze, and Sansa looked exhausted, but was certain she’d stay out in the snows as long as Bran needed her to. _At least she’s wearing furs, unlike Arya._

“Take me to the hall. I need to see,” Bran said, and Jon approached him, bending down and lifting his brother. He weighed less than Arya, less than Daenerys, and his arms came up to hold Jon’s neck for steadiness. Sansa got to her feet and bent down to gather up the blood and sap-soaked furs.

“These will be a mess to clean,” she mused as she rolled them up. Irri and Jhiqui moved to help her and Jon turned and left them to it, not wanting to delay any longer.  

“She’ll be all right,” Bran said. “She’ll sleep for a while. Her mind must recover from it and sleep is the best way for that.”

“But she’ll live?” Jon asked.

“She swam,” Bran said.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It means she’ll live.”

Jon’s arms tightened around his brother for a moment, and Bran hugged him too. “What _happened_ , why did she…”

Bran snorted. “She came to yell at the gods for taking me,” Bran said.

Jon’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “Of course she did,” he sighed. He could imagine no one else doing it, which meant only that his little sister could have. _Even when she nearly gets herself killed, she makes me laugh,_ he thought.

The laughter seemed to break some sort of dam in his scarred heart, and he felt tears well in his eyes again. _She nearly died. I nearly lost her._

His mind went to Daenerys. “And Dany?”

Bran looked at him, nervous in his arms. “I needed blood,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t reach her, she was sinking, and I needed blood and sap.”

_Death must pay for life._

_Gods._

Except Bran had broken the tree. _What does that mean for us from now on?_ He wondered. _Will the old gods curse us?_

But he’d ask that later because they’d reached the hall and he saw the maester and Brienne of Tarth standing over Daenerys. Her lion skin, the one that her first husband had given her, the one she war in cold, the one she wore for comfort, was draped over a chair, covered in blood.

He crossed the hall quickly and set Bran down in a seat at the foot of the table before rounding his way to the top.

The maester was sewing her skin back together with a long needle, great stitches to pull her flesh back together.

“The cut was clean,” he told Jon without Jon asking. “And careful.” It stretched across the tops of both her arms and across her breasts as well. “She’ll scar, but I think she may live.”

“Think?” Jon asked sharply.

“She has lost a lot of blood,” the maester said. “I don’t yet know if it was too much. I have concoctions in my room.”

“Where? I’ll get them.”

“No,” Brienne said. “I will.” Her face looked a mask of agony.

“You were the one who cut her?” Jon asked.

“She would not let it be my blood,” Brienne said and her big blue eyes were full of tears. “I wanted to, I swore to Lady Stark that I would keep her daughters safe, it should have been—” but Jon cut her off.

“Yes, you’ll go,” he said coolly.

“In my chambers,” Maester Wolkan said, “There is a shelf to the right as you come through the door. On the top shelf there is a box. Bring that to me.”

And she was gone.

“Do not be angry with her,” Bran said quietly. “Be angry with me.”

Jon glanced at his brother. He was leaning forward, and a hand was resting on Daenerys’ booted foot. His eyes were sharp, and his face somber.

He was right. But Jon could not be mad at Bran. Perhaps if he’d been gazing placidly into the distance, his eyes glazed, seeming to feel nothing, he might have raged, raged for the woman he loved, the sister he’d nearly lost, the brother who was there in flesh only.

But Bran was there and Jon could not be angry.

When Brienne returned, he thanked her, and gave her a small, apologetic smile, which filled her eyes with tears once again and she sat down next to Bran. The maester opened the box and found a small vial. He tipped a drop of its contents between Daenerys’ lips, then opened a jar of an ointment, which he rubbed along the stitching.

“She can go upstairs now,” the maester said. He glanced at Bran and Jon. “I take it, from your expressions that my other patient may be out of harm’s way?”

“She fevers,” Bran said. “And likely will for a while. She’ll sleep for several days, but she should live.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I must visit her before I take your word for it,” the maester said.

“I’d expect no less,” said Bran and the maester picked up case and box and hurried from the room.

Jon lifted Daenerys from the table and cradled her to his chest, resting his forhead against her head. He saw Brienne bend to pick up Bran and he crossed the room, leaving Daenerys’ hrakkar on the chair. It would find its way back to her. The whole castle would see it, but the whole castle would also see the broken weirwood tree, and had spent the night hearing the howling of the wolves. _The rumors will be unbelievable,_ Jon thought, bemused through his exhaustion.

It was quiet when he reached the hallway. He glanced into Arya’s and Sansa’s room, and saw the maester bending over her. Gendry was sitting where he’d sat, staring at Arya, his jaw clenched. Rickon was still curled up next to her. Irri and Jhiqui were helping Sansa put fresh furs on the bed. Sansa was still spattered with blood and sap and she looked up when Jon passed Bran’s bedchamber, then hurried to him, Irri and Jhiqui on her heels.

“Will she live?” asked Irri.

“The maester thinks so,” he replied softly.

“ _Thinks?_ ” Sansa asked sharply.

“Thinks,” Jon replied.

He was too tired, his heart couldn’t take much more tonight. It was already twisted and scarred and broken. He turned away from them and brought Daenerys into her bedchamber. It was warmer in here than in his own. Jhiqui and Irri helped him put her under the furs.

“The hrakkar?” asked Irri.

“It’s in the hall below,” Jon said, and the girl went to fetch it.

Jhiqui glanced at him. “Will you sleep?” she asked him.

 _She needs warmer bodies than me,_ he thought. “You should,” he said. “I’ll not throw you from your bed tonight.” Jhiqui climbed beneath the furs next to her. “Wake me if…if anything changes.”

Jhiqui nodded, and Jon turned to leave the room, but found Sansa standing there in the doorway. She threw her arms around him, and hugged him wordlessly. Jon squeezed her as tightly as he could. When she released him, she kissed his cheek and turned back to Bran’s and Rickon’s room. Jon watched her go, then went back to Arya.

The maester was concluding his examination, and glanced at the king as he was closing his case. “Rest,” he told him. “She’ll live through the night.”

Rickon had not moved, and Gendry was still watching her, his eyes dark. _He won’t sleep,_ Jon thought. Somehow, the thought comforted him. Gendry would be there with her, and Rickon.

Jon nodded to the maester, crossed the room and kissed his sister’s forehead, then rubbed Rickon’s hair. He nodded to Gendry, who nodded back.

Then he went to sleep, climbing into the cold hard bed his father had once slept on. He buried his face in his pillow, and began to cry.

* * *

* * *

 

Daenerys

She flew.

The wind whipped at her face, at her hair. The wind was cold, but the air was hot—hot because the dragon beneath her warmed her. But no—no it wasn’t a dragon at all. It was a wolf.

And she wasn’t flying anymore, she was falling, falling, falling. She saw the clouds rise away from her, and their face was the same bleeding face as that of the heart tree. “Help me!” she called to it tasting raw meat and blood on her tongue, but it smiled and said simply, _no. you helped me. thank you._

She screamed then, sure she would die. She had never fallen before. Bran Stark had fallen and his back was broken from it, but Daenerys fell from higher. She fell from the sky, not a tower.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a wolf howled.

Jon said that the wolves would keep Arya alive.

 _I’m not a wolf. They won’t keep me alive._ She was a dragon, but her dragons were dead. A dragon queen with no dragons. A wolf queen, then? But the wolves had a queen already, a hell bitch whose brothers ran with her at the head of a pack. She did not share her reign with others, and besides, she wasn’t a wolf so why bother?

She was falling. Above her, the cloud face changed shape. Red eyes, still, but rounder. No mouth, a snout. _Ghost._ “Ghost!” she called to him. “Jon, please! I don’t want to break!”

The wolf howled, or it would if it could. Ghost was silent, howling without sound. He was so small as she fell, smaller in the distance and growing smaller by the second.

“Drogon!” she screamed because surely the dragon would come. He always came when she needed him most.

* * *

* * *

 

Brienne

There was a hush in Winterfell.

The whole castle had seen what had become of the tree in the godswood. “The old gods will curse them now, you mark my words. Spring will never come now,” she’d heard a man say. “The Starks have always been good to us, but they’re unnatural. Unholy.”

Brienne did not go back to the godswood. She did not wish to see the bloody snow.

There was a sept in Winterfell, and she went there instead. It was empty—no one prayed there, for the northerners did not keep the Seven, and the Septon who’d occupied the seven-sided building had either died or left long ago. She did not know. She saw hand-bound copies of the Seven Pointed Star in pews of fine iron wood, and went to the altar of mother at the back.

There were no candles to light, and even if there were, Brienne did not have a way to light them, so instead she stared at the carved wooden face before her. Was she imagining it, or did it look like Lady Catelyn?

“Please,” she said to the Mother. “Please, let them live. Let my sword not have felled her, and let Arya pull through.”

If there were a septon, she would have found him to speak to. She would have asked—is it murder if the victim tells you to cut her down instead of yourself?

She could imagine Ser Jaime’s face as she stared at the image of the goddess. _You slew Mad Aerys’ get. Well done, Ser._ He had never liked her, had always watched her closely for signs of her father’s madness. Brienne had never seen signs of it, not even when she’d bared her arms and breast for Brienne to cut through.

“Gentle mother,” she breathed and looked up again at her face.

Yes, she did look like Lady Catelyn, she thought. Lady Catelyn not as Brienne had ever seen her, though. She did not have the harrowed, haggard, scarred face and sliced throat and hateful eyes, nor the weary strength that had come of wandering the world widowed. It was gentle, and kind, and loving, and fierce, and clever. Her smile seemed to light up her whole face.

She had the same nose as Sansa.

Brienne went and found a pew and sat down, pulling out a copy of the good book and leafing through it in the dim light. She found a chapter that her father had read to her when she was a girl and began to read.

It was several hours later before she put the book down and left the cold, dark, sept. Her soul felt no lighter as she made her way back into the keep. She went up the stairs to the chambers of the Starks. Daenerys Targaryen’s bedroom door was closed, as was the door to Jon Snow’s room. But the door to the bedroom that Bran and Rickon slept in was open, the room empty, and the door to Arya’s and Sansa’s room was ajar.

She peered inside. The great grey wolf, Nymeria, had come up into the castle sometime in the night and was lying on the bed, dwarfing the woman who slept there. Jon Snow sat at the bedside by the window, holding his sister’s hand. There were dark circles under his eyes, and she wondered if he had slept or if he, too, saw the great gash when he closed his eyes, heard the sound she made, biting down on her lip so as not to scream even though it must have hurt more than anything in the world. The King in the North looked up at her when the door creaked and his lips twitched.

“How does she fare?” Brienne asked him.

“No different,” he said. “Her fever is high, but Bran says that the sleep is natural and she should wake in time.”

“And Lady Daenerys?”

Jon Snow didn’t reply. Instead he let go of Arya’s hand, tucking it gently into the furs of the bed. He kissed her forehead and then led Brienne out into the hallway to the door of Daenerys’ room.

He did not knock, but he opened the door quietly.

Brienne had expected the room to be empty, but it wasn’t. Daenerys’ two Dothraki handmaids were crouched by the fire with a basin of water, trying to scrub the blood out of the lion skin that Daenerys so frequently wore. Jaime laughed at it when he saw it. _“Are you trying to prove something, Targaryen?”_ He’d run his thumb over the Lannister lion pommel of his sword. Missandei was sitting on the bed at her side, a book in her hand, reading aloud quietly to Daenerys in a language that Brienne could not understand.

Daenerys’ eyes were closed, and her lips were chapped. And she was so very pale.

There was an empty seat by the bed and King Jon sat in it, looking at her.

“You cut deep,” he said at last. “She’s faring less well than the maester had hoped, but she is still alive. So long as the wound doesn’t fester, I have hope she’ll recover.”

He did not say more. He did not look at her.

“Your grace,” Brienne said with a dry throat, “I—”

“You did as she commanded,” he said. “She lived, though that much blood and such a cut should have killed her. But she knew you could do it, I’m sure. You’re a careful knight, as well as a strong one.”

“Your grace, please forgive me,” Brienne said. “You know I would never—”

“I know,” Jon Snow said simply. “And you haven’t. Not yet. If she dies, I may have trouble forgiving you.” He glanced over his shoulder to look at her. “Though I shall try. There’s more to you than just this.”

“This shall follow me all of my days,” she said fervently.

A queer look filled Jon Snow’s eyes. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not.”

He turned away from her and Brienne backed out of the room. She could not stay in there a moment longer, not while Daenerys’ ladies and Jon sat there not knowing if she should live or die.

Her feet carried her back to her bedchamber, and found that it was not empty. Sansa was sitting there, sewing. She looked up when Brienne came through the door and put the sewing aside, standing and hurrying towards Brienne. A moment later Sansa’s lips were against hers and Sansa’s arms were around her, and Brienne held her tightly, trembling.

“I’ll never forgive myself if she dies,” she said to Sansa. “Not ever.”

Sansa’s arms tightened around her. “There was so much blood,” she said. “It was horrible.” She shuddered and buried her face in Brienne’s chest.

How long they stood like that, Brienne did not know. Neither of them moved, neither of them had anywhere they wanted to move to. There was something wonderfully comforting about holding Sansa after everything that had happened, especially now that they were both cleaned of blood and sap.

“I heard someone saying that winter would never end because of what happened to the tree,” Brienne said.

“I heard someone saying that the gods themselves would strike us down,” Sansa said.

“You don’t think there’s truth to it, do you?” She needed to believe it was, needed to believe that whatever she’d witnessed, whatever she’d been part of wasn’t the blackest of arts that would send her soul straight to the seven hells.

Sansa shook her head and finally took a step back, away from Brienne. “People will believe what they wish to believe.” She paused, then continued quietly. “I saw some of what Bran saw. I didn’t understand it all, but I saw…enough of it.” She shuddered. “It was horrible. I was frightened beyond what I can say. Part of me thinks I shall never be able to release the memories of it, but already some of it fades.” Brienne waited to see if she would continue, to see if Sansa would try to describe the indescribable things she saw, but she didn’t.

Instead, she went and sat down on Brienne’s bed, resting her elbows on her knees and her forhead in her hands.

“Sansa?” asked Brienne, unsure of what she was feeling. Sansa looked up at her with hollow eyes.

“Bran said to trust him and I did. I do.” She took a deep breath. “I spent the morning with him. He…he’s Bran again,” she said and there was such a quiet joy in her voice that it warmed Brienne’s heart.

Perhaps it was the sight of Sansa sitting on her bed that made her say it—though gods only knew it pained her to do so. “We can’t keep on like this, can we?”

Sansa’s head jerked her head up and was watching her carefully. “And why not?” she asked, and her face was ablaze with determination. Brienne loved her for that.

“Because the king says you’re to wed.”

“The king has other things on his mind right now quite apart from my marrying,” she said.

“But—”

“Leave Jon to me,” she said simply. “I said to Arya before we left—I don’t think he could withstand the two of us. His greatest virtue is his capacity to compromise, and Arya never yields. I’m sure we can reach some arrangement. Especially after everything that happened last night.”

Brienne was unconvinced, but Sansa reached out a hand to her and she took it without thinking. “I have worked too hard to allow myself to be unhappy,” she said, “and while I don’t know that such a marriage would make me unhappy, I know that leaving you _should_ , and I trust your honor too much to think that we could continue if I wed. So I must not wed.”

“Sansa.” Brienne was shocked, but Sansa raised a hand.

“All I ever wanted was to marry for love. But I can’t marry you, obviously,” she said, a wry smile crossing her face. “So if I can’t marry for love, at least let me live for it.” She stood again and kissed Brienne, running a hand over her scarred cheek. “You give me something to be brave for,” she whispered, “I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t fight for it.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter! I've been traveling and woefully underestimated how much time/energy I would have yesterday.

Bran

Jon found him in the hall at the high table.  “I’d thought to find you in the godswood,” he said, but Bran shook his head. 

“I spent enough time there last night, and I must let the tree…” he gave a wry smile.  “I don’t know if it will survive.  The other two, I’m more sure of, but that tree…”

Jon sat down in the high seat of the Starks, the seat his father had once sat in with its great direwolf armrests.  “How do you know they will live?” Jon asked.  “That Dany…”

Bran smiled at him. “I saw your wedding,” he said simply. 

“But that was before last night,” Jon said, looking as though he wanted to believe Bran, but couldn’t quite let himself. 

Bran paused, not sure how to explain to Jon the futures he could see foaming through time like broken waves, the way some bubbled and died, the way others flowed all the way to the present.  “I have seen futures less certain come to pass,” Bran said at last.  It was a lie, but it was one that he was sure he should not be caught in.  He could sense—more than guess—what futures were errant fancies, what were dreams. 

Jon looked as though he had not slept at all, and Bran was sure that he hadn’t.  Rickon had not either until morning light had come.  His little brother had gone down to the yards to spar but had come upstairs before too long and buried his face into the bed. 

Bran had slept.  He had not slept enough, but he had slept well, not letting himself dream at all.  He felt alert, looking at his brother, and he knew Jon’s question before Jon was going to ask it.

“What happened?”

Bran took a deep breath. He’d been preparing for this all morning, ever since breakfast, when he and Rickon had been the only Starks at the high table.  Most of Daenerys’ blood had been cleaned away, but some of it had stained the wood, and would remain there until they replaced the table.  He reached for Jon’s hand and Jon squeezed it. 

“Last night, Arya tried to wear the skin of the tree,” he said.  “I don’t know if she knows that is what I have done, what I do, or if something drove her to the impulse, but she tried it.  She is a powerful skinchanger—stronger than you and Rickon combined, but not strong enough, nor does she have the training.  A wolf is a wonderful skin to wear—the tree…” he paused, more for drama than for anything else.  The truth of it mattered, but he also knew that if he went into the details of the truth, it would take hours and there were so many details they did not need to know, should never know.  Drama was a better way to stifle it.  “It is not the same.  A strong skinchanger can share the skin of a wolf,” he nodded to Jon.  “A stronger skinchanger can slide into many beasts.” A flash of recognition crossed Jon’s face.  _He has met one who could,_ Bran thought.  _Beyond the Wall, like as not._ “Only one man in a thousand is born a skinchanger, and only one skinchanger in a thousand can be a greenseer.”  He paused for a moment, trying to think how best to continue. 

But Jon thought he had finished, and said, “So you broke it.”

“No,” Bran said. “Breaking the tree would not have brought her back.  She was too lost within the magic of it all.  The tree is a skin to the magic.  The magic was where the trouble was.  I broke the tree because I needed sap and blood.  I wasn’t strong enough to pull her out without it.”

Jon frowned and Bran watched as his mind went from the sap to the blood.  His hand tightened in Bran’s.  “Have you needed blood before?” he asked, his voice hard.

_Jojen looked so pale, but of course he did.  It was dark, and there was no blood left in his body at all._

“Some things are better left unsaid,” Bran said quietly, as he’d said the other night to Sansa.  He could see Meera’s tears, feel the thumping way she had hit his chest as she’d sobbed. 

“Are we cursed?” Jon asked next.  “I’ve had people giving me looks since it happened, muttering under their breaths. The gods won’t like what happened to that tree.”

Bran gave him a wry smile. This, at least, was easier than the rest.  “I can’t control what people will say to one another.  They may say we're cursed.  But that's not how this works.  Not least because I’m the one that did it.”  Jon gave him a sharp look and raised his eyebrows.  “I…It’s not merely a matter of magic and knowledge,” Bran said slowly. “I know what the gods are—and what they’re not.”  _I know what they are—and what_ I  _am._ “If I wanted to, I…I could be one.  One of the gods.”  Bran’s voice was little more than a whisper, and when Jon looked at him now, he could see his own fear reflected back at him in his brother’s eyes.  _Robb the lord, and Jon the king, and Bran the god._

_I do not want to be a god.  The Crow’s Eye wanted that._

_I wanted to be a knight._

But Bran had learned young that you don’t always get what you want.  And if he was to be a god, then the Crow’s Eye couldn’t win.  Even in death, he had been trying.  Was Bran weak not to have seen that?

“So no.  No I didn’t curse us.  Spring will be bountiful—hopefully enough to put to ease the minds of those who think it.”

Jon reached out a hand and squeezed Bran’s tightly in his.  He didn’t know what to say, Bran could see that much in his face.  But the touch of his hand was enough for now.  “And Arya will be all right?” Jon asked at last. 

“She should be.  She’s resilient, and as I said, she is a strong skinchanger.  Her body and mind are used to magic.  But she will take time to recover, which I imagine will make her impatient.”

“How long will she sleep?” Jon asked.

“A week, perhaps,” Bran said.  “Maybe longer, maybe less.”

“Could you look and see? Are you able to?”

Bran took a deep breath. He’d been expecting that too.  “I can,” he said slowly, “But I won’t.  Not yet.  I made a promise to her, but I don’t know if she heard it.  I’d rather know what she wants from the promise before I break it.”

Jon looked confused. “I promised her I’d stay with her,” Bran said.  “When I was calling her out.  I promised I’d stay as…I don’t know.  I don’t know what she would interpret that as.  Does she mean the little brother she used to play with?  If so then what magic am I allowed?  And if not, what is the happy medium?  I’m content knowing that she shall live, and thus I can wait to know.”  _Even if the waiting hurts.  Even if it means Euron Greyjoy…_

But no.  No, Bran wouldn’t dwell on that.  He couldn’t.  The wolves had howled, and Arya had lived and there was something right in that, in the way he sat now in the hall with his brother, at this table where he’d once eaten with Meera and Jojen.  Hodor had carried him through these halls. 

The thought strangled his breath in his throat. 

“I don’t make a promise in magic only to break it,” he added at last.  “Beyond simply knowing that magic is reliant on words and deeds,” he paused and remembered Jon’s words in the godswood, before he’d even known that Bran was listening, “I was raised knowing that words and deeds must matter. It’s what father always taught.” 

Jon looked at him evenly.  “He’d be proud of you.  You were brave,” he said quietly.

Bran half-smiled. “He’d be prouder of you—king that you are.  You’ll make a good one.”

“Did you see that?” Jon asked, and Bran laughed.

“I don’t need to see that to know it.”

Jon blushed, and looked down at the table.  “It’s hard,” he confessed to Bran, and Bran went still.  _He is like Robb._ “I don’t know if I am equal to it.”

“You won’t be alone,” Bran replied quietly.  “You have us, and you have Daenerys, and spring will come again.  Everything is easier in spring.”

He saw Meera’s angry green eyes again at the words.  _Perhaps in spring, when I might be able to bear the sight of your face.  I must go to my father.  Does my home even still exist?_

“Jon?” he asked, and Jon looked up.  “Can you invite Meera and Howland Reed to Winterfell?  I would…” He would what?  Apologize?  Beg forgiveness?  _Jojen is dead and the Neck is broken and both are because of me._ Would his father’s friend ever wish to see him?  Would Meera?

“I can,” Jon said.  “I can do it today if you’d like.”

Bran smiled at him. “If…” he said and he took a breath. He was frightened to put words to it, because if he did, the thought would hold power in him.  He’d been too much a coward to look to his own morrows, after all.  He did not know what awaited him.  “If she’ll forgive me, and if she’ll have me, I would wed her,” he said.

Jon tilted his head quickly, considering Bran’s words.  Then he sat a little straighter.  “And if she won’t have you?”

“Then I am sure one of your lords bannermen might be convinced to give a daughter to me, though I am broken.  I…” he paused.  He would not think on a wife yet.  Not while he wanted to think of Meera.  _Will I weep when I see her?_ He felt everything so intensely now, he probably would. Would that soften her heart to him? Should it?  “I suspect I am a juicier prize than either of my sisters, despite my being crippled.”

And Jon saw what he was saying.  “You’re still trying to save her,” Jon said quietly.

“Both of them,” Bran said. “For they both saved me.”

* * *

* * *

 

Jon

“Your grace, she has awakened.”

Jon got to his feet immediately.  He wasn’t fully dressed—it was late, but he did not care, and doubted that Daenerys’ ladies or the maester would either.  Gods only knew they’d seen him in different states of undress, and would understand his eagerness. 

He paused at the door, searching Missandei’s eyes for any sign of…anything.  But the steward gave nothing away, and Jon pushed past her without another word.

The maester was sitting on the bed, wrapping Daenerys’ wounds in more white linen.  The cuts were red and angry still, and likely would be for a long while.  But the maester had been content that they’d been cleaned properly, because they did not seem likely to become infected.  That had been good news he’d been given yesterday.

Daenerys was sitting up, her breasts bared that the maester could see the cut across her chest more easily, having wrapped the cuts on her arms.  She turned her head to Jon when he entered, and he sagged against the door at the sight of her face.  Though she had just woken, she looked tired, but that didn’t concern him, couldn’t concern him when she was looking at him like that.

He crossed the room, rounding the bed so that he sat opposite the maester and he took her hand, and squeezed it, not trusting himself to say anything at all while the maester was there.  He did not look away from her as she sat there, and it wasn’t until the maester pulled the furs back up to cover her chest again that words came to him.

“Well?” he asked Wolkan.

“She should make a full recovery,” he said.  “The cut on her left is deeper than the one on her right, and it seems to have affected her use of her hand in future, but we won’t know how much until she’s had more time to heal.”

“She,” Daenerys said dryly, “would prefer to be spoken to, rather than about.”

“A million pardons, my lady,” Maester Wolkan said.  Jon had never seen the man flush before, but he did then.  “I have milk of the poppy for your pain if you should like it.”

“No,” Daenerys said. “Not yet.  I would eat, and be awake for a time.  Irri went for food,” she added for Jon’s benefit.  “Is there anything else you need, Maester?” she asked him.

“No, my lady.”

“Then if you don’t mind—I’d like a moment with my king.”

The maester stood and departed.  Jhiqui and Missandei, both of whom had been hovering somewhere beyond the scope of Jon’s awareness, disappeared as well, closing the door behind them.

Jon moved closer to her, kissing her deeply, running his hands through her hair.  It was oily under his touch, but Irri and Jhiqui had washed her blood from it at some point. 

“What happened?” Daenerys asked when he broke the kiss and Jon settled himself on the bed at her side, holding her hand still.  It was limp in his.  He told her everything that Bran had told him, everything that he had seen, everything he could think of. 

“Arya sleeps,” Jon said. “But she should wake soon.  I…I trust Bran.”  _Especially now that you are alive,_ he did not add.  Any doubt he had had had come, not from lack of faith in his brother, but from his own fear on the matter.

There was a knock on the door, and Irri came in with a plate of food.  Jon reached for it, and Irri gave it to him before retreating again.  He cut the apple cake first, since he knew it to be her favorite, before popping pieces of it on the fork and lifting it to her mouth.

“I hate this,” she murmured. “It hurts to move them.”

“They were deep cuts,” Jon said as she bit down on the fork.  “Feeding you until you heal is no hardship.  I’d feed you until the end of my days if it meant you were alive.”

Daenerys took a deep breath. “The food from the Vale,” she began.

“Has yet to arrive,” Jon said.  “We can try and think of something—I don’t know what, but—”

“No,” Daenerys said. “No, it must be as Sansa arranged. Any attempt to change the matter would mean our word means little and less, and we must not have that.”

Jon steeled himself. “And what does that mean for…”

“I shall speak to them,” she said.  “I…I don’t know what I shall say.  I hate that I must say it, but I must be the one to do so.  I am their khaleesi.  Even if the decision was not mine, it comes of my…” she took a deep breath and looked at him steadily, “my pack.”

Jon kissed her again, deeply.  She broke the kiss.  “You should be feeding me, not kissing me.”

He smiled and raised another bite of apple cakes to her lips.  Her eyes were distant though.  “They’ll do it,” she said to Jon.  “They won’t like it, but they’ll do it if I command.  I know that you have all of your bannermen to think of, whose wills and needs you must balance, but I ask…remember what they do now, and reward them for it.”

“I will, I swear,” Jon said. “I don’t know how, but…but I will.”

Daenerys nodded. “Your word must always be better than Lannister gold,” she said, and he raised a bit of cut venison to her lips.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I am very behind in getting to reviews but <3 and hopefully I'll get a chance to soon!

Arya

Arya woke to the fuzzy feeling in her mouth that came from having been too long abed. Her body ached and her head was thumping with the sort of headache that would have meant she could feel totally justified in going back to bed until she felt better.

She would have done, but she felt a hot tongue on her face, and opened her eyes to find Nymeria’s great gold ones looking down at her as she laved kisses on Arya’s face. “Hello,” Arya told the wolf. Had her voice always sounded so raspy? Her throat felt dryer than the Dornish desert. Only then did her thoughts catch up with her thumping head. “Why are you in the castle?”

Nymeria _hated_ being indoors, and only did it when commanded, and Arya had learned long before that she could not command a wolf as one commanded a dog. But here she was, lying in her bed with her.

_A bleeding wooden face. Bran’s voice._

She blinked up at the wolf, then looked about the room. It was dark, she knew not what hour it was, but she saw no sign of Sansa. There were glowing coals in the fireplace of a fire that had been alive several hours before but wasn’t now, and there were furs thrown over a chair between her and the window.

Her stomach grumbled, and her head throbbed again, and she knew that however long she’d been asleep, it had been longer than that since she’d had proper food in her belly. So she clambered from the bed, stumbling on shaking legs. Immediately the wolf was at her side, too big for the room. The room was almost warm but Arya shivered. She was wearing an undershirt that smelled strongly of her sweat and little else. She stumbled to the chest at the foot of her bed, digging out a fur cloak and a set of trousers, tugging on boots while Nymeria watched her. Then she made for the door.

Torches were burning in the corridor and she took one to light her way, holding her hand against the wall for balance. Behind her, she could hear Nymeria breathing.

She made her way down to the kitchens. There was light coming from the doorway, and she could hear the sound of cooking from within. _So early,_ she thought, _rather than late._ As she passed through the door, Tom let out a startled shout. “Princess! You’re alive!”

Arya blinked, then laughed. “Why wouldn’t I be alive?”

“We feared the worst when you did not wake? Thought the gods might have taken you for what happened.” Tom’s eyes flitted between her and the direwolf at her shoulder. His words sounded ominous, but Arya did not press him. She was too hungry.

She turned to Nymeria. “No wolves in the kitchen,” she said, rubbing the direwolf behind her ears, “I’ll eat and drink.” Nymeria gave her a look, and Arya kissed the wolf’s snout. “Promise.” She turned to Tom. “I know that I’m not supposed to eat when—”

But the cook was already pressing a plate of eggs into her hand, and a piece of warm brown bread, and some meat. “The king commanded you eat whenever you wake,” he said, and he pointed to a stool by one of the long tressle tables. “So eat. Your king commands.”

One of the serving girls placed a large jug of ice-melt water in front of her. From the moment the food passed between Arya’s lips, she felt better. With each passing bite, she felt lighter, and lighter, and when she’d finished eating, she drank down the whole jug of water in three long swallows. “Thank you,” she told the cooks.

“Are you still hungry?” asked Tom.

“Not enough to risk the rations,” she said.

“You’ve been ill. You haven’t been eating your rations.”

Arya laughed but excused herself. When she left the kitchens, she could hear the castle stirring, and as she made her way back through the hall, she heard someone calling out the hour. Early, but not too early.

She turned to Nymeria. “I’m all right,” she promised the wolf. “I know you hate being inside. You can go if you like.”

But the wolf stayed at her side, climbing back up the stairs patiently as Arya went to dress properly.

She heard footsteps, then felt arms around her. “You’re awake!”

It was Rickon, and his voice cracked as he spoke. Had he grown while she’d been sick as well? She turned to face him and hug him properly, and he buried his face in her neck, squeezing her so tightly she could barely breathe. “I’m awake,” she said. “I’ve eaten and everything.”

Rickon broke the hug and beamed up at her. “Bran said you’d wake up today,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.” He took Arya’s hand and led her across the hall to his and Bran’s room, Nymeria trailing behind.

Bran was sitting up in bed, still in his sleeping things, and Arya’s heart leapt when she saw his face split into a smile, a true smile and he held out his arms. She pelted across the bed and threw herself into them and Bran squeezed her. She was surprised for a moment at how strong his grip was. She felt Rickon jump on the bed behind her and he wrapped himself about her from behind.

“I cheated,” Bran confessed, “I said I wasn’t going to look and see when you woke, but I was growing impatient.” He sounded oddly nervous, and Arya pulled away from him, confused.

“What?” she asked.

“I promised,” he said. He glanced at Rickon, then sighed and looked at Arya again. “I’ll never leave you again.”

Somewhere, through the fog, she heard him calling that. Had she dreamt it? It had sounded like he’d been crying, but wasn’t any longer. There had been fire in his voice—had been power in his voice.

Arya’s throat was dry again.

“I told myself I wasn’t going to let myself do magic until I’d…I’d talked to you about that. I don’t know what I promised—I just know that I promised.”

Arya was frowning. Something was missing. She didn’t know what, but something was missing. Bran took her hand and held it. “I know,” he whispered. “I know it’s hard. It was hard for me too, when I first saw it. I couldn’t remember it for years. We’re not built to, not really. That’s why we have the trees.”

She had no idea what he meant. Bran was watching her, and his smile had turned sad. She did not like that. “Not built to what?” she asked.

“See that way,” he said, and he reached up a hand and touched the center of her forhead. She winced, though she did not know why. “It’s more powerful than we are, and it can pull us apart if we’re not careful.”

“Is that what happened to me?” she asked. “Was it pulling me apart?”

 _Why_ was she having such difficulty remembering? She’d never had trouble before. She could remember so many things so clearly, she never let herself forget anything, not ever, the sigh of the crowd as Ser Ilyn had taken her father’s head, the smell of rotting flesh at Harrenhal, her mother’s final gasp of surprise. But even as she looked at Bran she knew that there was much she may never remember.

She did not like that at all.

“Yes,” Bran said. “It was.”

“And it doesn’t pull you apart?”

He didn’t reply for a long while, considering. Then he smiled a halfway sort of smile. “Not in the same way,” he said. “I think you know how it was.”

She looked into his eyes, clear and blue and alert. Yes, she thought she knew too.

“Could I learn how to keep it from pulling me apart?” she asked.

“Would you want to?” He looked surprised, and now it was Arya’s turn to consider.

She was trying to remember…

But she couldn’t. She only remembered the dry feeling in her mouth, and the sensation of not being able to breathe.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think I would.”

“Good,” Bran said. “Because I’m not sure I could teach you. You’re strong, Arya, but I don’t know if that’s enough. It’s not the same.”

“How do you—” she began, but he interrupted her.

“You can wear many skins,” he said simply. “You told me yourself—you’ve worn a cat’s skin, and a bear’s, and an owl’s. Jon and Rickon have only worn their wolves, and Sansa hasn’t worn anything—she didn’t know she had magic at all until a few nights ago.”

“And you?”

“I can wear any skin,” he said but there was no pride to his voice. If anything, there was shame. That confused her even more, and she opened her mouth to ask, but Bran shook his head. “The point,” he said firmly, “is I don’t know what I promised when I promised I’d not leave you again. I don’t know what you agreed to, when you came up out of it and let me put you back. So I’d like to know.”

“I still don’t understand,” Arya said.

“Am I not to try and see the morrows and the past? Am I only allowed to when the moon is full. Can I wear Summer’s skin, or—”

“Of course you can wear Summer’s skin. He’s lonely. He misses you.”

Bran’s face twitched infintessimally. He turned his head away from her, looking to the window and she saw his eyes go white for a moment. He sat there for a little while, eyes blank before they weren’t anymore and tilting his head back to rest against the headboard. “It’s like going home,” he whispered.

“You are home,” Arya whispered back. “For true now.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I am.”

“I don’t care what magic you do,” Arya said. “I care that you are home. So long as you’re home, you can do as you like.”

Bran nodded to her slowly. “And if I…if I’m not home you must tell me.”

“I, or anyone,” she said, glancing at Rickon who was sitting there watching them both quietly. “Rickon, or Jon, or Sansa—any of us.”

“Done,” Bran said.

“And you must run with Summer more.”

“I’ll run with Summer more,” Bran laughed.

They sat there a long while. Bran and Rickon told her everything that had transpired, of Daenerys’ wounds. Her left arm was useless, the maester said, but she would live. Sansa was resting from her journey as well, and, “Rickon will be a heartbreaker. Lady Erena and Lady Lyanna both fawn over him, yet he seems to show no interest in either girl.”

“They’re nice,” Rickon yelped. “I like them both.”

Bran winked at him. “Liking is not loving, brother.”

“They’re _girls_ ,” Rickon protested.

“Yes,” Bran agreed, “they are. I suppose they are young.” But his eyes seemed to twinkle with the teasing.

How she had _missed_ the twinkling. And here it was, so wonderful and bright. How long had she longed to see it there, and there it was. She leaned forward and hugged Bran again, squeezing him tightly. She never wanted to let him go, not ever. But she also knew that when she did, ultimately, let him go, he’d be there still.

She heard footsteps in the hall and recognized them at once. She looked at Bran, who murmured, “Go on,” and she clambered from the bed, skirting it before throwing open the door to the room with a bang and sprinting after them.

“Jon!” she called and the footsteps—already on the stairs, stopped.

She pelted towards him, and he was running up the stairs again and a moment later she had flown into his arms, and he was squeezing her so tightly. He was trembling against her, and she was laughing and sobbing all at once. When he let her go enough to look down at her, she saw black exhaustion under his eyes.

“You’ve not been sleeping she said,” reaching up and touching the dark circles.

“And you’ve been sleeping too much,” he replied. “Have you eaten?” She nodded. “Eat again,” he said. “You’ve not eaten in at least a week.”

He led her by the arm down to the hall, and a hush filled the room at the sight of her. Sansa, already seated at the high table, stood at once and rounded the table and took Arya tightly in her arms. “I’m glad you’re awake,” she whispered. “Do you remember?”

Arya shook her head, and looked up at her sister. She saw disappointment there, but also relief. “I wish I didn’t,” she said quietly. “It was…” her voice faded, and she gave Arya a half-smile.

Arya ate again with her brother and sister, and glanced out over the hall to see if she could see Gendry. She couldn’t, but that did not surprise her. He rarely breakfasted with the castle. Sansa followed her gaze.

“He was worried about you,” she said quietly. “He sat with you all through that first night, and didn’t say a word. He just looked…” she glanced at Jon.

“We were all taking it hard,” Jon said. “Rickon was crying. _I_ was crying.”

“Well, I’m here,” Arya said quietly.

“Why did you do it?” Sansa asked her, glancing at Jon. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and leaned forward, asking quietly,

“Was it your anger with me?”

Arya swallowed. She rememebered yelling at the tree. Bran said it was broken now—she’d never see that red and bleeding face again. “Yes,” she said. “And no. I was angry—I’ve been angry—about everything. And hurt. And I…I wanted Bran back, and the gods wouldn’t give him back.”

“So you wanted to make them?” Jon asked.

“I wanted to make someone do something,” she said. “I could not bend your will and…” she froze. How willingly Gendry had kissed her, how eagerly. He had loved her, and she had loved him, and she couldn’t _choose_ him because the king her brother would not let her.

She looked at Jon and straightened her neck. “I am who I am,” she told him. “No more, and no less. And you do not use me fairly if you would marry me.”

“Arya,” Jon began, but Arya spoke quickly.

“I understand if you’d put whatever lord you like in my marriage bed, but he can’t have my maidenhead—I’ve given it to—” Jon’s face twisted as though he _really_ did not wish to hear those words, but it was a brother’s face, not a king’s and Arya found herself unable to continue speaking because she was trying not to laugh at it.

“I was trying to say,” Jon said weakly, “that you don’t have to marry. Neither of you.”

“What?” Sansa asked sharply.

“Not unless you wish it,” he added. “I’ll not make you. Poor Rickon can’t escape it, I think, but he understands that and Bran…Bran’s said he’ll wed whoever I chose, though he begs a first attempt at a choice of his own.”

Arya gaped at him.

“So that’s _it_?” she demanded with quiet heat. “Bran and Rickon say we don’t have to wed and just like that we don’t? _The woman is important too, Jon Snow. You should listen to us.”_

Jon closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He took one deep breath, and then another. “You know,” he said at last, “I’ve been trying very hard to be a good king _and_ a good brother. I didn’t want any of this for either of you, but that’s what the North needed, and you understood that. It’s not that I wasn’t listening—it’s that we didn’t have an alternative until you woke Bran up. I’m not _trying_ to be cruel, or…or not listening. I know that women are important.”

“Then I hope as king you’ll make it so others do too,” Sansa said, her gaze baleful. “Or else I imagine you’ll have a pair of she-wolves at your throat.”

“And Nymeria’s the alpha of the pack, not Ghost,” Arya said, only half-teasing.

“I love you both,” Jon said. “I swear, between you and Daenerys, I don’t know _how_ …” his voice trailed away, and a distant look crossed his face. His expression changed, and he looked at them both. “Marry for love. Or don’t marry at all. Just be happy, as best you can.”

“This was all,” Arya said bitterly, “A complete waste of all our energy.” She rolled her eyes at Jon. “It’s like when we went north to Last Hearth. It didn’t matter in the end.”

“It did matter,” Jon said quietly.

Arya raised her eyebrows at him.

“You brought Bran back.”

Arya sat there, very still for a moment. Then she smiled. Jon reached out and ruffled her hair. “I want you to be happy, little sister,” he said quietly. “But more than that, you make your own happiness—not me. Whoever…” his voice trailed away and he rolled his eyes and said more knowingly, “ _whoever_ it is you’ve given your heart to—he’s worthy because you chose him. You chose him—and I did say you could choose. And I suppose if you had to choose someone who wasn’t a northerner, you could have chosen worse.”

“I could say the same of you.”

That made him laugh.

Arya chewed on her lip as she smiled at him. It was the first time she’d felt happy—truly happy—in longer than she cared to think about. _You make your own happiness—not me._

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“I know spring is coming, and spring will change everything,” she began. It felt so long since that conversation with Gendry in the forge, since this thought had first crossed her mind. She hadn’t thought it right to bring it up while Jon feared sstrife to the north, and when he’d returned… “And I want to help you with your rule.”

“I would expect no less,” Jon said, smiling at her warmly. “You and Sansa and Bran and Rickon—I expected as much.”

“Let me finish,” she said and he pulled his lips between his teeth, signaling that he would remain silent. “Kings have all sorts of people helping them. Father was hand to King Robert, and King Robert had a master of ships and a master of coin, and all these other things—but I don’t think any of them would fit me. I wouldn’t fit them.”

“I expect you’d try,” he said slowly. Arya widened her eyes, annoyed, and he sucked his lips back between his teeth, professing silence until she was truly done.

“I want to help you—but I want to be the one who decides how. I don’t know what it will look like. I don’t think I could. My skills are… well I have a lot of them, and I want to use them as best I can. And I don’t think that anything that already exists would let me. So I want to choose how. Over time. We can figure it out together.”

Jon rubbed his chin, thinking carefully. “From anyone else, I would never trust such a proposition,” he said slowly. “But from you—gods be good, Arya, how could I refuse?” Arya grinned at him, and he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you little sister,” he told her, his voice thick.

“I love you, Jon,” she replied, her heart swelling.

She didn’t know what the future would hold for her—for any of them. But it would be _her_ future. Not someone else’s. That was all she’d ever wanted. And she’d claimed it for herself.

When Arya rose from the table, her feet carried her out of the hall and into the courtyard. It was warmer than she’d felt it in years, and she even thought she saw an icicle dripping as she passed under the roofing outside the forge. There was Gendry, hammering away, shirtless and sweating and covered in soot.

“Hello,” she said quietly, and he froze, looking up.

He put his hammer down and left the sword he’d been beating, rounding his anvil and crossing the forge in three quick strides. Arya threw her arms around him and he hugged her, tightly.

“I feared you would die,” he whispered to her hair. “I—” he swallowed and pulled away from her, his eyes going to the door of the forge. She glanced over her shoulder. No one was out there.

“I don’t care who sees us,” she said.

“The king will care.”

“No he won’t.” Gendry looked at her, frowning slightly. “He. He told me I could marry whoever I wanted. It didn’t matter who.”

Gendry’s eyes widened, and she saw a war of emotions in them. “That was gracious of him,” he said dryly, and Arya elbowed him.

 “He didn’t want to hurt me.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t come to me crying,” Gendry replied firmly.

“I know,” Arya told him. “Can we put it behind us? I don’t want to be angry at Jon. I don’t want to be angry at anyone. I…” she chewed her lip and looked up at him. There was so much to tell him, so very much. And she knew exactly where to start. “I don’t know if I _want_ to marry, but I do know that I would choose you if I did. Is that enough?”

Gendry went very still. “Me?” he asked slowly. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. And I meant it when I said I don’t know if I _want_ to marry, either. I just want to be me for a while—whatever that means.”

Gendry blinked, then laughed, and sang in a rough, low voice, “No featherbed for me.”

She stepped on his toe, which only made him laugh harder, and she was giggling now too, and she threw her arms around him and this time neither of them cared who saw that they were kissing.

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa

Daenerys found her in Bran’s bedroom, where she was, finally, finishing the dress of her mother’s that she’d started sewing so many months before, before the cold and the road and Brienne. Bran was sitting in the bed, his eyes blank. It was a different blank from when he’d done what he’d done. His face looked relaxed, there was even a slight curve to his lips and she knew he was running with Summer, and not swimming in that horrible swirl of magic.

Daenerys was wrapped in her lion skin again. The stains from her blood covered the pelt, though from the looks of it, Irri and Jhiqui had managed to keep too much of the blood from setting. Both women stood behind her and came into the room to sit with her as well. “I’d speak with you,” Daenerys said quietly, glancing at Bran.

“You can speak at volume. You won’t disturb him,” Sansa said, and Daenerys nodded.

“I have not yet told my Dothraki that you traded their horses for food,” she said. She looked at Irri and Jhiqui. “But I want you to know what it is you are asking.”

“That Jon is asking,” Sansa clarified, but Daenerys shook her head.

“That you were asking,” she said. “Jon might have thought of it, and he might be commanding it, but it was your mind that led to its passing.” She turned to Irri and Jhiqui. “Who should I ask first for the horses?”

Jhiqui shook her head. “Not ask. Command. You are khaleesi.”

“Without my dragons, I cannot command.”

“We follow the strong. You have shown yourself strong.”

“A wound lighter than mine slew Khal Drogo,” Daenerys said. “It festered and he died.”

“He could not ride,” Irri clarified. “A khal who cannot ride is not a khal.”

“A man who cannot ride is not a man,” Daenerys replied, and she looked at Sansa now, and Sansa shifted uncomfortably. “I cannot ride well with my arm like this,” she said, looking down at her left arm. The maester had said she could not use it anymore, that it was limp and useless, and that Brienne had cut through some vital nerves in the darkened godswood. “How many will look at my command for horses and see a khaleesi who cannot ride and who has no dragons and think I go too far.”

“They cannot fight and win,” Sansa said. “Not in the North—they are outnumbered.”

“And with finer horses than any northman,” Daenerys replied. “They can ride down many with what horses remain them now, if they so chose. It could be the chaos that the northmen fear them so capable of, and would lead to civil war in our kingdom.”

“But they won’t,” Sansa said.

Daenerys raised an eyebrow and Irri and Jhiqui looked between them. “And why is that?”

“Because you will not let them. You know them well enough to prevent it.”

Daenerys sait quietly for a moment. She looked at Irri and Jhiqui. “Do I?” she asked. “Do I know them well enough? Do I know you well enough?”

“You fought for us,” Irri said quietly. “You brought us through the Red Waste and across the sea. You protected us. You would keep us from starving. A man who cannot ride is not a man, but a man who cannot eat does not live very long.”

“Some will be angry,” Jhiqui added. “Furious. Insulted. Betrayed. But…I think the rest will keep them in line until summer. It is many horses, but not all. So long as summer comes soon, it may not be so bad.”

“Summer,” came a voice and they all four of them started, looking at the bed. Bran was watching them. “Summer will come,” he said. “Spring is not so far off. We may only need to send one group of horses south for the trade, and with King Tyrion’s gold and Lord Samwell’s fruit.”

“Sam is sending food?” Daenerys asked sharply.

“Not now, but he will,” Bran said. “It may not be so bad for much longer.”

Daenerys’ face broke into a stunningly beautiful smile and Sansa rose to her feet and kissed Bran’s cheeks at his words. Bran returned the smile, and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. How she loved Bran’s smile. How she would never tire of seeing it, when she’d thought it lost to her for so long.

They sat for a good while longer, talking through the matter. It was the first time, Sansa realized, that she’d truly seen Daenerys being a queen to her people. She’d seen her as a champion for the living, as a conqueror facing the world, but had not once seen the way she took to heart those she led. She weighed the advice of her handmaidens, and even summoned her bloodriders to the chamber to hear their thoughts as well. And when she had decided what to do, Sansa felt relief. Daenerys had been right, she’d learned, listening to them talk. She had not known what she was trading. But Daenerys had, and those who loved her would not let her fail Sansa or Jon.

 _Perhaps,_ she thought as she went through the castle, drifting her way towards Brienne’s chambers, _she will be a good queen here too._

She hoped she would be.

She’d gone that morning to find Brienne after Jon had told her that she wouldn’t be commanded to marry, but had not been able to find her knight. She’d been training in the yard, and would be for hours yet, but she was back in her chambers when Sansa went to find her, cleaning her armor.

“I’ve news for you,” Sansa said, closing the door behind her.

“My lady?” Brienne asked her. She did not rise, she did not have to, and Sansa stood over her.

“Jon spoke with us this morning on the matter of marriage.” She watched as Brienne’s face went still, as her eyes went slightly sad. “He told me that I could choose who I wed.”

“He said that before,” Brienne said quietly.

“True,” Sansa said, “But he did not say that I also had the option to marry _only_ who I chose, and that I could wed for love. Or, as the case may be, _not_ wed for love, since gods only know you and I can’t marry.”

Brienne’s jaw dropped. “Sansa,” she said, but did not continue. She did not seem to know how to continue.

“I told you before—you give me reason to be brave for myself,” she said. She steeled herself. “I love you, Brienne of Tarth. And though I know no marriage vows can bind us, I feel safe in knowing that they shan’t keep us from one another.  So will you stay with me, unmarried until we are old and grey?”

“But surely you want a husband, and children, and…and all I can’t provide you with.”

But Sansa tried to think of that life—the life she’d once dreamed of, with puppies and barges on a boat. It was such a silly girlhood dream, for how could she have known that Brienne’s hand—rough and calloused—was the only hand she wanted to hold? She shook her head.

“I want you,” she whispered. “If you’ll have me.”

Brienne didn’t say a word, but Sansa saw her eyes fill with happy tears.

Sansa took one step towards her, and then another. And when she was within reach of Brienne she took her in her arms and stood on the tips of her toes to kiss her. How soft her lips were, how gentle. Sansa could kiss them forever and feel safe. She _could_ kiss them forever. She could be Brienne’s for as long as they lived, would never have to be parted from her.

Brienne deepened the kiss and her arms tightened around Sansa’s waist, pulling her closer. Her chest was muscled, and her breasts were small, and Sansa reveled in the sturdiness of her chest against hers, the strength of Brienne’s arms, the warmth of her heart as the two sank down onto her bed and began fumbling with laces and fabric. The room was chilly and Sansa’s skin erupted into goose prickles when she tugged off her gown, but that only sent her into the warmth of Brienne’s embrace. She kissed her way along the scars on Brienne’s face and chest, pausing to press her lips gently against the pale pink flesh of Brienne’s nipples. She kissed each of Brienne’s freckles and kissed her way down to the thatch of pale hair above her sex.

Though Sansa was the younger, she’d often felt that Brienne was the more innocent of the two. She’d not had Randa to whisper sinful thoughts to her—that much was for certain, and when Sansa extended her tongue to run along Brienne’s slit, she gasped. “Is that all right?” she asks.

“It was…” Brienne’s voice faded away, and Sansa took that as an invitation to lick again. She found she liked the way that Brienne tasted. It was a gentle scent, which matched Brienne’s gentleness, and the longer she licked, the more of it she could taste as Brienne grew wetter and wetter under her tongue. Sansa ran her fingers along Brienne’s thighs, listening to the ragged way she was breathing. When she glanced up, she saw that Brienne’s eyes were closed, that she was biting her lip, that her hands were balled into fists.

“It’s all right,” Sansa whispered to her.

“I don’t want it to end,” Brienne whimpered without opening her eyes.

“It won’t,” Sansa told her. “This is us for as long as we live. It never has to end.”

Brienne opened her eyes right as Sansa went back to licking her and she let out a moan and Sansa felt her sex begin to clench under her tongue. Sansa kept licking, bringing her thumb to rest atop that nub at the apex of her sex and a moment later Brienne was choking out her name, her voice thick and breathy both at once while her sex rioted under Sansa’s lips.

Sansa pulled away, kissing Brienne’s thighs, her stomach, her nipples, her neck, her lips, smiling into each kiss as she did so. Brienne ran calloused fingers through Sansa’s hair. “How did you know how to do that?” she asked quietly.

“Randa Royce told me all about the men who were bad at it,” Sansa laughed. “So I did the opposite of what she suggested.” Then, ducking her eyes a little, nervously. “It pleased you?”

“Sansa,” Brienne said and her lips were on Sansa’s, her tongue was slipping between Sansa’s lips and how she loved the taste of Brienne’s lips. Brienne’s hands were between them now, gently stroking at the skin of Sansa’s breasts and Sansa arched her back into Brienne’s hands, the touch of them setting her skin aflame.

“Do you want me to try?” Brienne asked quietly.

“Do you want to?”

Brienne swallowed, and nodded. “But you must tell me what I do wrong,” she said, flushing. “I don’t have memories of anyone telling me what doesn’t work.”

“I promise,” Sansa said settling herself on the bed and watching as Brienne settled herself between Sansa’s legs as they fell open, as wide as Sansa could stretch them.

Brienne ran curious fingers along the skin and Sansa sighed at her touch. Not rough—never rough. Just the right amount of contact. “You’re so beautiful,” Brienne said stoutly, looking up at her.

“As are you,” Sansa said and she meant it. People called Brienne hideous, but the look in her eyes as she looked up at Sansa, the dusting of freckles, the color of her hair, her heart which illuminated the perfect soul in her breast… Sansa sat up and bent down to kiss Brienne, her hands stroking her head briefly before she lay back down.

Brienne’s tongue was unpracticed against her—not that Sansa had anything to compare it to. But the feeling of it was almost easy, relaxing. Brienne’s tongue was warm, and wet, and sturdy and as she licked her way up and down Sansa’s slit, she found her hips rocking gently towards it, little noises escaping her throat as she did. Yes, it felt very nice.

She gasped when Brienne brought her tongue to that spot at the top of her sex and Brienne paused. “Keep going,” Sansa told her. “Right there.” And Brienne did. She flattened her tongue against that spot, then swirled around it, and it felt positively heavenly—better than anything Sansa had ever experienced. She lifted her hips towards Brienne’s face, her hands gripping at the furs underneath her as she did, and she murmured, “Oh, Brienne—that feels…” but she couldn’t think what to say. There had to be a word for how this felt, but Sansa could not think of it. She couldn’t think of anything, really.

Just Brienne.

And with a sigh she released, her head aswirl with joy. Brienne for as long as she lived, Brienne, and love, and being loved in return. More than she had dared hope and yet her heart was full of it as she gasped for air and pulled herself away from Brienne’s lips because suddenly she was feeling far too much.

She smiled and sighed as Brienne clambered back up the bed to her, and Sansa pulled her into her arms. “That was all right?” Brienne asked her.

“It was perfect,” Sansa told her with a kiss.

* * *

* * *

 

Daenerys

The sun was lowering in the sky when Daenerys left the great keep of Winterfell, wearing furs and the hrakkar her sun and stars had given her. Irri and Jhiqui were at her side, as was Missandei, who was carrying several scrolls in her arms. When they passed through the castle gates, Ghost came out of nowhere and trotted at her side.

 _Silver,_ she thought as she clutched at the hrakkar skin with her good hand. _Like my silver, like the hrakkar. Like me._ She’d never noticed before. It steadied her.

Her stomach was full of butterflies, and she’d not felt so frightened in years—not since she was a frightened girl crossing the Dothraki Sea for the first time. She passed the houses of the winter town. To the right, when she reached the end of the houses, she would have found the Hornwood camp. To the left, she saw those members of her khalasar who did not live in Winterfell—the vast majority of them. Them, and their horses.

She took a deep breath and went to the left, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw two people step out of the Hornwood camp and follow her. Rickon, and Arya.

 _Pack_ , she thought as Rickon hurried towards her. He wasn’t smiling, but his gaze was warm. Arya’s face was more withdrawn, but she fell into pace besides Missandei and began talking with her quietly.

“It will be all right,” Rickon told Daenerys. “Won’t it?” he glanced at Irri and Jhiqui.

“We can hope,” Jhiqui said, and Rickon nodded.

Daenerys went to the heart of the camp and climbed up onto a snow-covered rock—a tricky task one-armed. Out among her khalasar, she could see the faces of those she’d fought beside, of those she’d led, of those she’d provided solace to, and those she’d praised, and those she’d protected.

She opened her mouth, and the words that came out of her lips were in Dothraki.

“I come to you today humble,” she said. “I come to you today begging.”

She saw people shifting, she saw Irri and Jhiqui gazing at her intently, saw Rickon and Missandei translating her words for Arya.

 _If I look back, I am lost._ “I know there have been fights,” she said. “That the men and women of Hornwood have tried to take your horses, that they have had more food than the men of the north, that they fought brave as any beast against the night.”

Satago was standing in the front of the throng of people, his eyes narrowed. She looked to Hliziffo, who was resting his hand on the hilt of his arakh. “There is not enough food in the north,” she told them. “There has not been for many moons, and it will be many moons yet before there is. The khal of winter, who is my sun and stars,” how strange it was to say those words of Jon. But she continued, “sent his sister to find food and she did.”

She saw smiles. One of Rickon’s friends even let out a whoop of joy. But Daenerys raised a hand. “The food will arrive, and we will feast, but it was sold in trade, as is the way of these people,” she said. “Once, Khal Drogo, who was my sun and stars, drove his khalasar south to Lhazar. He was to take the people there as slaves, and sell them that he might buy ships to come here, to this land that was my father’s, and take it for me.” _And he died, and so did my dragons, and my father’s lords did not want me._

_What is a dragon queen with no dragons?_

_A queen of those who will have her._

_A queen in the north._

_A khaleesi of the great white waste._

“But men do not buy and sell men in these lands, nor shall my khalasar ever participate in such a transaction,” she said. “A man’s worth is considered greater than that of his steed in these lands. And so they have been known to trade in horses.”

Whispers filled the crowd, and Satago said loudly. “You have given away our horses to the cannibals.”

“Let her finish,” shouted Rakharo, but Satago had already spat upon the snow.

“We fight and die for you and you unman us anyway. Foreign maegi.”

Rakharo’s arakh was in his hand, but Satago laughed. “Come on, boy. Dance with me.”

“No,” Arya’s voice rung out loudly in the common tongue and she was elbowing her way through the crowd to stand between Satago and Rakharo.

“How many children did you eat today, wolf bitch?” Satago asked in Dothraki.

Arya did not understand his words, though. She merely looked at him, and looked at him hard. “Let her finish,” Arya said quietly. There was power in her voice, and somewhere off across the snow, they heard a wolf howl.

“You give away our horses so we can’t run when the wolves come for us, maegi?” Satago said, and Daenerys saw clearly how she could say it. She looked at Irri and Jhiqui, who nodded to her.  

“Tell me, Satago—how many horses will you give my sun and stars when we are wed?” Satago blinked at her. “He is a great khal, as fine a khal as Khal Drogo—brave and strong.” _And kind,_ she thought. She wished he were here with her. Suddenly, she understood _why_ Ghost was with her. _Of course._ In her nervousness, she’d thought that the wolf came to give her comfort, but it was far more than that.   _And I speak in a tongue he does not understand. He’ll love that._ “Our khalasar becomes one with his—so how many shall you give the khal as a bride gift?”

The khalasar laughed, and Daenerys smiled. It was not how it worked. She knew it as well as they, but they, too, knew that no khaleesi had ever existed such as Daenerys had. “Think of it not as a selling your manhood,” she said, “but rather how my sun and stars will use his bride gift. Surely you would prefer that he prevent his people from eating themselves? Were you not one who spoke to me of the Hornwood camp?”

Satago looked around. Daenerys turned to her Dothraki. “How many horses for my sun and stars?”

The number was higher than what Sansa had promised Harrold Hardyng.

And if Bran said that spring would soon be upon them, then there would be no need for more.

She almost sagged with relief when she clambered down from the rock, and made her way back to where Irri and Jhiqui stood. “You have guided me so precisely,” she whispered to both of them in gratitude, and they smiled.

They went back to the castle together, and this time it was Arya who fell into stride next to her. “You lead them well,” Arya said quietly.

Daenerys gave her a look. “Did you think I didn’t?” she asked sharply.

Arya shrugged, “I don’t think I’d seen you speak to them since you lost your dragons. It is different now from how it was then.”

“I am different now from how I was then,” Daenerys said. Arya nodded.

“So am I.” Her voice was so quiet that Daenerys wasn’t sure if she’d heard it.

Jon was waiting for them back at the castle. “Well?” he asked her.

“You weren’t watching?” she teased, wrapping her good arm around his waist.

“You were speaking in tongues,” he replied, kissing her.

“It’s done,” she said. “Don’t ever sell my horses again, or else I shall have a good deal of trouble with it. This won’t work a second time.”

“And what was it you did to convince them?” Jon asked.

“A gift for my blushing bride,” Daenerys laughed, standing on the tips of her toes and kissing him.

Jon snorted. “A fine gift.”

“A fine gift for the khal in the North.”

“Am I a khal?”

“It’s as close to a word for king in Dothraki,” Daenerys replied, and she kissed him again.


	21. Chapter 21

Gendry

Gendry heard footsteps in the forge and looked up, expecting Arya and finding—

“Your grace,” he said slowly, laying his hammer down. He could not remember the last time that Jon Snow had come to his forge, and did not think that the king had ever done it. Indeed, he was not sure that he had spoken to the king since he had been given the forge months before. He hadn’t been sure he wanted to, and then he’d been angry on Arya’s behalf.

King Jon passed the rack where Gendry kept his tools, before coming to sit on Gendry’s workbench. “I’ve not been in here since it was Mikken’s,” Snow said, looking about. “He forged Arya’s first sword in here.”

Gendry knew the sword—castle forged steel and small enough to fit a small girl’s hand. How she’d loved that sword, and the brother who’d had it made for her.

Gendry didn’t say anything. He watched Jon Snow carefully, not sure what had brought the king to him. “Bran says the snows will clear before too long.” Jon looked at him. Gods he had Arya’s eyes, sad and heavy with caring for too much. “When they do I shall make it known that we need a proper smith in Winterfell. You’ve served us well these past few months, but you are a knight, and I would not force you to smith longer than needed—unless you would wish it.”

Gendry closed his eyes for a moment. “I know who should hold this forge,” he said when he opened them again. “I’ve been training someone.”

“Oh?” Jon Snow looked pleased. “Who? One of the boys?”

“Her name is Marya. Her husband was a smith in the winter town before the war. She took up his forging when he died.”

If Jon was surprised that Gendry named a woman, he did not show it. “Is she skilled?” he asked.

“Getting there. She may need guidance still, but…I don’t mind guiding so long as I have time to do other things besides smith.”

“Anything in particular?” His voice was too light. _He knows_ , Gendry thought at once. The rumors had reached him—or perhaps Arya had told him. _She doesn’t know if she wants to marry. Why would she tell him if she wasn’t sure?_

Gendry felt his face heat and he tossed the hammer in his hand, turning it about. “No,” he said at last. “Nothing in particular—but I’ve not had the time to truly think on it, beyond training and keeping my strength up.”

Jon was clearly thinking quickly. “I’m sure I can think of some use for you,” he said. “Especially when the snows clear, there will be much that I shall need. I trust you intend to remain in the north?”

“I do, your grace.” _For as long as she’ll have me, I’ll be here._ He did not say that though. But perhaps the words were written on his face, for Jon said,

“Good. We have need of good men here. There are fewer than I should like after the wars, and the northmen respect you. You are Robert Baratheon’s son, after all.” Gendry’s lip twitched, and Jon hurried to continue on, “Not that an absent father has any bearing on the son—merely that it sits well among those who fought for his crown, and who were loyal to my father.”

 _Your uncle,_ Gendry thought, but he did not say that either. He wondered if Jon saw that on his face too. If he did, the bastard king pretended he had not.

“I should reward you,” Jon said. “For your service, both during the war and since. A holdfast or…” but he saw Gendry’s face and his lips quirked in a smile. “You’d refuse me?”

“I imagine what good faith your northerners have of me might dwindle if you rewarded me when others are just as worthy.”

“Are they?” Jon asked quietly. He glanced at Gendry. “Very well, then. I’ll hold off on that. Until such time as it seems more…fitting.”

Jon Snow was watching him closely, then he rolled his eyes. “Treat her well. I know you will, but I have to say it. She’s my little sister.”

Gendry swallowed. “I will, your grace,” he said by way of reply.

Jon Snow stood. He did not take Gendry’s hand, though his head jerked slightly in what would have been a nod if it had been slightly less of a diagonal motion. Then he turned.

At the door to the forge, he glanced over his shoulder. “Have this Marya speak with me when next she comes to your forge. I’d know her face, and story if she’s to be my smith.”

“I will,” Gendry said, and the king was gone.

* * *

* * *

 

Bran

“The food has come! The food has come!” Rickon sang as he pelted into the sitting room. Bran knew this already, of course, but he smiled happily at his brother, who darted back out as quickly as he’d arrived, singing excitedly. Bran closed his eyes. On the wings of crows, he could see the castle’s excitement, and through the nose of his wolf, he smelled something warm and familiar.

He loped towards the castle, leaving his brothers and sister behind in the snow. He made his way on long legs through the winter town and the castle gates. His scent spooked the horses who were being led to stables—strong pack horses from White Harbor. He saw Brienne of Tarth and Missandei overseeing the movement of the grain into the cellars, but he did not trouble himself with them. He followed his nose, rounding a wagon to where he saw a woman, kneeling in the snow before Jon, her curly dark hair flecked with snowflakes.

When she stood, she turned and saw him, and he knew that she saw him watching her and he opened his eyes again, his heart racing in his chest as though he’d been running for true and not on Summer’s legs. _Coward,_ he berated himself. _You told father you would be brave._

He could not say that he was more frightened of Meera than of Arya dying. That was comparing ravens to frogs. But he was frightened of Meera, of coolness in a gaze that had once been warm, of a stiff lip and clipped words as she hated him.

He sat there quietly, not paying any heed to the book on his lap at all. Several minutes later, he closed it and rolled his chair to the window to look down below into the courtyard. Brienne of Tarth and Missandei were still directing the movement of the grain, but he saw no sign of Meera’s dark, curly hair.

 _She is going to get settled. Jon will have had her brought to her rooms, to rest from the road._ Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself of that.

Behind him, the door opened. He did not turn to see who it was, and simply because no one said anything, he was sure it was her.

“Your brothers said you were you again,” Meera said quietly. “Is that so? Or did I come for nothing?” She sounded so hurt and Bran shifted in his chair, his brows stitched together.

“Meera,” he whispered, and he turned his chair and began rolling it towards her, but stopped short when he saw the look on her face. There was anger there, and exhaustion, and sadness. No sign of joy. No sign of relief that he was sitting there with her, that he was expressive. “Will you sit down?” he asked her, gesturing to the seat that Sansa so frequently occupied while sewing.

Meera took a deep breath, then closed the door behind her and settled herself before the fire. The snow in her hair, on her furs, was melting. “Can I offer you water? Or wine?” Bran asked, rolling to the small table where a pitcher of each was sitting. “The wine is passing, but the water is clear and melted snow.”

She didn’t say anything and he poured her water, and rolled towards her again—awkwardly now that he had a hand full of the goblet of water. She got to her feet and took it from him. Her hand was ungloved now, and it was cool against his, her skin rough and dry and cracking.

She drank from the goblet and looked at him sternly. “Why did you send for me?”

“I—” Bran began, then stopped short. He didn’t know what to say. He’d expected Meera to be distant, perhaps even cold, but harsh? He swallowed. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why? I have nothing further to say to you,” she said. “Do you have something to say to me, my lord?”

Bran’s mouth was dry, and he swallowed again, trying to get some spit in it, but it would not stick. He closed his eyes and remembered her tears. He had never seen Meera cry except in that moment, had never heard her voice break. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“The way you hurt Jojen and Hodor?”

“I didn’t want to hurt them either,” Bran said quickly.

Meera put the goblet down on the floor and crossed her arms and legs, staring at him. “I was young,” Bran said. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I—”

“That’s some comfort to them, I’m sure. They’re _dead_ ,” Meera’s voice cut like a knife. “They’re dead, and they died afraid because of you.”

“I know,” Bran said. “And I must live with it.”

Gods it hurt, feeling Hodor die again, the way that Jojen’s last breath had sounded as it had rattled from his lips. He wanted to cry, he wanted to run away—but he could not run, had not been able to since he was seven years old.

So instead he looked at Meera. “No amount of good I do can atone for it,” he whispered. “To others, maybe, it will wipe it away. They don’t remember, they don’t know. But me?” He remembered Hodor’s frightened shrieks, remembered the smell of Jojen’s crackling skin as they’d burned his body. “I was their prince,” he whispered. He looked at Meera and something in him broke then. “I was their prince and I ran from it. I dove into the dreams and didn’t want to feel. I couldn’t look back, but if I don’t look back I can’t remember them and if I can’t remember them no one will.”

“Except for me,” Meera said. Her voice was not so hard now. “I remember too.”

“I wanted to see you,” Bran said again. His voice was thick with unfallen tears. He did not wish to cry, he was a man grown, not some green boy freshly crippled. He’d flown the skies, he’d tasted death on his tongue, and life too, he’d seen all of time and back again.

“Why?” Meera asked.

“Is it not enough just to see your face and know you live?” he asked.

Meera sat quietly for a moment. Her face was thin, her curls, he noted, less shiny than his memory. Her eyes were sunken, too. “You broke the Neck,” she said. “My father’s lands—the lands that were to be Jojen’s, and the lands that are mine now. You broke them.” She’d been sitting at his bedside when he’d done it.

“I was trying to break it at the Twins,” Bran said, looking down at his hands. “That’s where they killed so many northmen, where my mother and brother were killed. I wanted to sink it into the sea, but I couldn’t reach that far that quickly, and there wasn’t enough time.”

“But you kept it clear of the castle,” Meera said. “Along the southern seam, near where Jojen told you our mother used to take us turtle hunting.”

“Yes,” Bran said. “I remembered what he said. If he was to die, I…I wanted…”

 _I wanted his words to matter. I didn’t want his words to be wind._ Why was he so afraid to say it?

But Meera was sinking back in the chair now. She was closing her eyes and had reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “My father doesn’t know how to rule a coast,” she said. “When spring comes, the bogs will all run into the sea and we may not have our marshes any longer. Everything the crannogmen have ever lived on will cease to exist as we know it. But…” she sighed, “better that than dying, I suppose. It’s just won’t feel like home anymore.”

“What was home like?” Bran asked quietly, and Meera looked at him with sharp green eyes.

“Warm,” she said, “In summer, anyway. My hair was curling, and there were more bugs than I could count. Fish, and frogs, and turtles, and lizard lions. Mother wouldn’t let us swim because the lizard lions might get us, but everyone said we must know how if we lived in the marshes. There was laughter, and stories, and…” her voice trailed away. “And my brother. There was Jojen.”

“I miss him,” Bran said quietly. “I do. He was my friend.”

“He loved you,” Meera said matter of factly, “He loved you—he always wanted a brother when he was a boy, not some stinky older sister. He came to love me, but when he was six or seven…” she smiled, “he wanted a brother like you. And he got one, after a fashion.” She looked at him and he saw the fight go out of her then.

“I don’t want to hate you, Bran.”

“Have you hated me?”

“Yes,” she said. “How could I not, after Hodor?”

Bran looked down again. He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t say anything to make that hurt any less. He was a boy and he’d wanted legs, and he’d known it was wrong but he’d done it anyway and what had that meant in the end?

“I loved you too, though. That’s why the hate was so strong.” His head jerked up and he gaped at her. “My mother says we hate the things we love twice as strong when they hurt us. That’s why it hurts so much. It would be safer not to care, but not caring is not possible. Not for you, at least. I don’t want to hate you, Bran. I’m tired of it. Winter has been long, and cold, and frightening.”

“Can you? Can you not hate me?” Bran asked.

“I can try,” she said. “I can try—if that’s good enough. If you stay you and don’t…” she grimaced, and he didn’t want to hear his own words—words he’d said with his own lips even if it had been another’s voice—repeated back to him.

“I won’t,” he said. “I swore to Arya I wouldn’t, and…and it would be poor repayment for Hodor and Jojen if I didn’t even let myself remember them. It’s not justice. It’s not fair. There’s nothing right about it, but I have to keep on…” and she was up on her feet, crossing the space between them and hugging him, holding him tightly, and he clung to her. “Meera,” he said and there were tears on his face now. “Meera. Please don’t leave me again.”

“Only if you don’t leave me again,” she said. “I won’t watch you fade again.”

“I won’t let you,” Bran promised.

They sat there for a time, and Bran felt almost warm.


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this fic. I can't believe it's been about a year since I started writing it and this update times perfectly with the anniversary of the vacation I took where most of it spilled out of me. I hope you have enjoyed!

Tyrion

When they crested the hill, Tyrion pulled on his reins. “There it is, my lady. Winterfell.”

The castle is in finer shape than when last he had seen it. Jon Snow had rebuilt the parapets that had been so destroyed by war, and the great keep—though blackened from flame at the base—stood tall again.

“Small—compared to the Rock, at least—but stronger than she looks.” He cast a sideways glance at his companion.

Lady Jeyne sat a horse as though she was born to it, and her brown eyes were full of roiling emotion as she stared out over the moors to the castle that once she might have sat in as queen. _In another, kinder life,_ Tyrion thought. _One where my family did not have their say—nor hers._ Lady Jeyne had not yet forgiven her mother, and Tyrion doubted she ever would. She had a stubborn streak to her.

“This was where you knew Robb?” she asked him quietly.

Distantly, he remembered Robb Stark, a boy too full of his own perceived manhood when his father had left him to rule Winterfell when he’d gone south with Robert. A happier time.

“Briefly,” Tyrion replied. “Not well. But his siblings will be able to tell you more of him. You have never met Jon Snow—he loved your late husband dearly.”

“And Robb loved Jon,” Jeyne’s voice is thick. “He named him his heir, after all. When he thought that Bran was dead.”

It was a conversation they had had before. It had been the only thing they’d thought to talk of when first they’d set sail from Lannisport. Robb Stark, Jon Snow, Bran Stark, and Robb’s sisters and youngest brother. Jeyne had not hidden her fondness for the house she’d once been wed to, and Tyrion had found that compelling. _There is honesty to her,_ he remembered thinking. _She might even have loved him._

How unexpected—a girl to love a king for the man and not the crown. But he supposed not everyone was like the Tyrells.

“Does it bring you joy to return?” Jeyne asked.

Tyrion inhaled slowly, looking out over the moors. _Will she still be as beautiful?_ he wondered. _Will there be pity in their eyes?_

“It brings me joy that it is warmer,” he said. “And that the snows have melted. They fell too deeply for a little man like me. There were times when I thought I’d drown in it.”

“I am glad there is not snow as well,” Jeyne replied. “Robb spoke of summer snows. I imagine the north couldn’t bear them after the winter they had. I hope his people are blessed with a warm spring.”

Tyrion gave her an even look. Her face was light more by determination than by emotion. That, he thought, was what he admired about her most. That she was determined to do what she thought was right. How refreshing, given his own family. _Are you happy, father?_ he thought bitterly, _Not a whore this time. But she’ll still never love me the way she loves the husband you had murdered._

“My lady, you would have made a fine queen of the north,” he told her. And, what was more, he meant it.

Perhaps that was what made the ride across the moors that much easier, feeling bolstered by the presence of Robb Stark’s widow. _I can face Jon and Daenerys, and what they mean to one another but not to me so long as I have Jeyne at my side._

He had never been a man for courtly love. That was for handsome knights or gallant fools. But Jeyne Westerling—plain as some might call her—made him almost feel as though he could love her from afar, without any designs upon her, without needing her to love him. He doubted it would last, suspected he would grow bitter and angry in time, but it would suffice for now.

As they rode, he saw a rider approach on a dark horse. When they got closer, he saw that it was Arya Stark.

“Your grace,” she called to him in greeting, her long face somber. She looked so like her half-brother. _Her cousin,_ Tyrion corrected himself. _Better to know what you are Jon Snow, that the world can’t use it against you._ And they would the moment the Northern lords decided he wasn’t their king. He was Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, not Ned Stark’s. _Yet Robb named him heir. What will they do then?_

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion called in greeting. “Meet your sister.”

Arya pulled her horse short, cocking her head and looking at Jeyne Westerling. Jeyne had sat up straighter on her horse, and Tyrion could tell she was hunting for a trace of Robb in his younger sister’s face. _She’ll not find it there. In Sansa, yes, but not in Arya._

“Sister,” Arya said at last, with a smile that was warm despite its curiosity. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Arya,” Jeyne said, and Arya gave her a small smile. _But of course—I would have greeted Sansa differently,_ Tyrion thought, oddly proud of Jeyne’s quick thinking, though she was not his, and likely never would be.

“Does the king know you’ve ridden out?” Tyrion asked Arya. “Or is he drowning in wedding preparations and you saw your opportunity to have your way?”

“Why not a combination of the two?” Arya asked lightly as she rounded her horse to ride at Tyrion’s other side. Her presence changed everything, Tyrion noted. Jeyne was more alert and less sad, and there was something different to Arya Stark that Tyrion could not place. _She always was a strange woman,_ he thought. As a girl, she’d been more of a wild beast than a lady, but now she somehow seems to be both.

“I have had some strange rumors reach me in the south,” Tyrion told her as they rode. “That there has been some strange curse the gods have foisted upon your house. I assumed it was the passing musings of those who only know little of the war, but—”

“Time will tell,” Arya said. “You’ll find that Jon and Daenerys will be wed before a broken heart tree.”

“Broken?” Tyrion asked sharply. He remembered well the ancient white weirwood in the godswood, thick and daunting with the bleeding eyes and lips of the strange old gods these northerners kept. _Not gods,_ he reminded himself, _greenseers aren’t gods—or else their own brother has become one. And Bran Stark is no god._

Arya gave him a look and an odd smile crossed her face. It was not a happy smile, but it seemed oddly proud. “I saved my brother,” she said simply. “And he saved me.” Tyrion frowned, and in response to that, Arya Stark said, “You shall see.”

And see he did. As they rode through the gates of the castle, there was a line of Starks to greet them as once they had greeted King Robert’s retinue so many years before. Jon stood with Daenerys at his side, Sansa beside Daenerys and Rickon standing next to her. And at the end of the row—

Bran Stark was smiling, his eyes alert and shining bright blue. He was starting to grow a beard as well and Tyrion heard Jeyne stifle a little gasp at his side before they dismounted. _He looks like Robb,_ would be Jeyne’s first thought, of course. But Tyrion’s was _he looks like that smiling boy who greeted Robert._

“May I assist you, your grace?” came a voice, and Tyrion saw Brienne of Tarth approach. Tyrion felt relief. The big knight would not allow the act of dismounting to be a humiliating one for him and he welcomed her aid with pleasure.

“Your grace,” Jon Snow said, stepping forward extending his hand. Tyrion took it, and smiled up at the familiar long face. He looked less tired than the last few times he’d seen him. “The north is in your debt,” Jon said solemnly. “Were it not for your aid, we may well have starved.”

Tyrion glanced about the yard, half expecting to see the mistrustful eyes of northmen as he had every time he’d come here before—a Lannister and a dwarf. But the faces seem warmer, if thinner. _Perhaps even these stubborn cold people won’t bite the hand that feeds._ He smiled up at Jon. “What’s friendship for if not breaking bread together?” He looked past Jon and his gaze fell on Daenerys.

She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but something about her aetherial grace seemed less entrancing than it had before. Or perhaps he is telling himself that so to protect his poor stunted heart. She stepped forward and bent to kiss him on each cheek. “Your grace,” she said. How distant it felt coming from her. From Jon Snow, it was a matter of how far the bastard and the dwarf had come from when they’d first met on that fateful night in this very castle. But Daenerys? He had served Daenerys, had wanted her to be queen of all the kingdoms.

“It is good to see you,” he said quietly to Daenerys, and turned to look at Jeyne. She was watching him, and looked wholly overwhelmed. “Jon,” he said, still looking at Jeyne. “You’ve yet to meet your goodsister.”

“My lady,” Jon said somberly. “You have honored us by bringing Robb’s memory home.”

Jeyne blinked at Jon and Tyrion saw Jon Snow extend his arm to accompany Jeyne into the keep. He tried not to let his blood curdle in his veins at the sight of it. _He’s to wed Daenerys. Must he be tall and gallant for Jeyne too?_

“Your grace,” Daenerys said, and extended her own arm down to him and he took it. His heart did not lurch as once it had at any contact with her. Perhaps distance had cooled him to her, as he’d hoped it would.

“I’ve heard that you sustained an injury,” he said to Daenerys as she walked at his side.

“I did,” she said. “I’ve lost the use of my arm, I’m afraid.”

He noticed the way the other one is hanging limply at her side—the one she’d used to wield the sword of Aegon the Conqueror. “I’m glad you lived,” he told her.

“I am as well,” she said. “It was…an eventful night.”

“When the weirwood split?” Tyrion asked.

“Did Arya tell you that?”

“She did and she didn’t. But I’ve always thought that my mind was quite as good a weapon as any sword.”

That made Daenerys laugh, her lovely throaty laugh. How he had loved to make her laugh once. Now though, it sounded like a familiar favorite song, one that brought to life a period of time—but it is not the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard anymore.

“Well, your observations do you credit, my lord. And I hope mine do too—am I mistaken in the familiarity between you and Lady Jeyne?”

That made his heart stop.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps not,” she said, but her tone said that she thought quite the opposite.

“She hardly spoke a word—I don’t know what familiarity you could be—”

“You sound as though you are protesting a little too ardently, my lord,” Daenerys said. “She seems kind enough. I hope very much that you wouldn’t lead her on.”

“Lead _her_ on,” Tyrion sputtered, thoroughly distracted by _that_.

It was a thought that would plague him for the rest of the night, and well into the morrow when he accompanied Jeyne down to the godswood for the wedding ceremony. It plagued him as he watched Jon and Daenerys swear themselves to one another before gods and men and as Bran and Arya Stark howled like wolves as Jon and Daenerys shared a quiet kiss before the broken heart tree. Jeyne dabbed at her eyes, undoubtedly remembering her own vows to Robb Stark some years previously—a quick wedding without a single Stark present save her husband.

“He’d be glad you are here, my lady,” Tyrion told her quietly.

“I know it,” she said, and a flush crept across her skin as she looked away from him. “I am glad to be here.”

And there it was. The thing that broke his distraction. _She still loves him,_ Tyrion thought. _That is what Daenerys saw. Nothing more._

When they returned to the castle, he glanced at Sansa. His former wife had been polite to him, if distant, the night before and any errant thought he might once have had before this journey of proposing that they remarry had died quickly. She had her arm looped through Ser Brienne’s and the two were talking quietly now. Brienne bent her head to hear whatever it was that Sansa was saying, and a soft smile curled at her lips. And then, so quick he might have imagined it, he saw Sansa press a kiss to the scar on Brienne’s cheek. _Truly a moot endeavor,_ he thought. _She always did like gallant knights, I suppose._

But the thought only brought a frown to his face and when he settled in his seat beside Jeyne, he reached for his wine, sure that he would drink deeply tonight. Daenerys was wed to Jon, Sansa loved her Ser Brienne, and Jeyne still loved the corpse of her husband dead now many years.

_And all I have is Shae who I murdered, and Tysha…_

Tysha and Shae, who had both had brown eyes and hair like Jeyne.

_Perhaps that is why I think to love her. Nothing more. Nostalgia and a poor fool’s heart._

“My lord, it troubles me to see you sad,” Jeyne said quietly as he drank.

“You needn’t worry after me, my lady. I’m quite used to this.”

“To sadness?” she sounded displeased with that. “I shouldn’t like you to be sad.” Then, in a smaller voice, “Did you love her so?”

“Who?” Tyrion asked unthinking.

“Daenerys.”

 _I have loved,_ he thought bitterly, _I have loved you, and her, and Tysha, and Shae. And I would have loved Sansa if she had let me._

“It is good of you to come,” she said quietly, “Despite all that. You are a good man, and a loyal friend.” Her eyes were bright when she looked at him.

“Another day,” he murmured. “Tell me that another day. Today, I cannot hear it.”

“Yet I am adamant that you do,” Jeyne said. “Just because she did not set her heart upon you does not mean another might not.”

“And what woman would want someone twisted little man like me?”

“One who values the good, the loyal, the heartfelt.” Jeyne’s voice was firm, stubborn. Gods how he loved her stubbornness. More fool he for that.

“When you find one who prefers that to my crown, then by all means send her my way,” Tyrion said at last. “Especially if she is not repulsed by—”

Jeyne Westerling made an annoyed noise and a moment later she had taken his hand. “Are you so determined not to see?” she asked, and there was a flush to her face.

“But you love Robb Stark,” Tyrion sputtered.

“And never shall not. But Robb is dead and loving a ghost is different from loving a living man.” Her face was bright red. “I thought you understood that.”

All his life, he’d been quick to think of words, his mind constantly supplying him with whatever words he needed whenenever he needed them. Now, though, his mind was thoroughly blank. “My lady,” he stammered. _I sound quite as much a stumbletongue as Podrick._ His heart was thundering in his chest. And because he couldn’t think what else to do, he raised her hand in his to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

Jeyne blinked furiously, her eyes bright, and her lips quivering into a smile. She squeezed Tyrion’s hand, and when Tyrion looked back through the great hall, he found that he could think of no better place in all the world than Winterfell.


End file.
